Another Thread in the Tapestry
by Les Amies de l'ABC
Summary: If Cosette's note had not fallen into the wrong hands, Marius would have met her the night before she and Valjean left for England. But the barricade would never have had its saviour, leaving Enjolras to make a life or death decision. More info inside!
1. Unwilling Goodbyes

**This is a collaboration between Wendla Bergmann and Citizeness Feuilly. We're going to be splitting the writing roughly 50/50 - try to guess who writes what! As always, reviews are not only welcome, but desperately wanted!**

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><p>Marius slipped through the gates of the garden of the rue plumet, his thoughts on nothing but that Cosette was waiting for him. Beyond these few hours, there was nothing left. The guns in his pockets weighted his jacket down.<p>

Cosette was not at the spot where she usually waited for him. He did not let that phase him- taking more steps into the garden, he found it to be empty. Marius moved branches of bushes back, as if she was hiding in the shadows. He walked around the huge oak tree in the middle, under which and Cosette had sat three nights ago and sheltered themselves from the rain. She was not there.

He turned to the bench- it was unoccupied.

But there was something there! Hope flew into Marius' heart, and he picked up a piece of paper, folded into a note. Instantly, he felt fear. What if this note was a goodbye? What if they'd left already? A chill pierced his heart. There was a feminine handwriting on the outside- it was addressed to him- well who else?. It was dark and hard to read, but Marius made out:

"My dearest, alas! my father insists on our setting out immediately. We shall be this evening in the Rue de l'Homme Arme, No. 7. In a week we shall be in England. COSETTE. June 4th."

Marius ran out of the garden as fast as he could.

When Marius arrived outside the rundown apartment, he was once again reminded of Cosette's financial situation. He knew she was not well off, but it was easy to forget in the beautiful rue plumet. Here, in an apartment that looked like it needed painting, it was clear his grandfather would never be persuaded. He only had to wait a few minutes before Cosette came running out.

She threw her arms around his neck, and he lifted her off her feet, his despair making him hold her all the more tightly, wishing he would never have to let her go.

"I missed you so much," he whispered, and kissed her cheeks, and her forehead, before tears escaped his eyes, knowing it was the last time he would hold her like this. He also cursed his hope from two nights before- he'd given up one of his last nights with Cosette to talk to his grandfather, and it had been a waste. What pushed him to believe his grandfather would ever be compassionate?

"Marius," she said through her own tears. When he finally put some space between them, she searched his face hopefully . But as soon as her gaze met his, the light vanished from her blue eyes. "Oh, my love, you don't have good news, do you?"

"I…" he started, but couldn't continue. He buried his head against her neck. "I don't want to leave at midnight," he said, changing the subject. "I only have one more night with you… can we stay out here until sunrise?"

"Yes… oh, goodness, if I could stop the sun from rising, I would," she beseeched. "Come, let's go around the corner, where we won't be seen." She led him away from the view of the windows of her apartment, and then they sat on the curb on the abandoned street. Neither seemed to notice or care about the distant sounds of strife in the distance. Indeed, neither flinched as the sounds of gunshots interrupted the silence of the night.

Cosette leaned against Marius, their bodies pressed together to the waist. She moved back almost immediately when she felt something solid and bulky on his side, pressed against her. The handle of something was sticking out of his pocket. Cosette reached for it, and pulled a pistol from Marius' pocket, her hands shaking.

Now, it was common for many men to have guns, but her father was not one of those men. She'd been taught only of the evil of violence, and the danger of weapons. In truth, Cosette had almost no experience with guns.

"What is this?" she asked, not understanding.

"Careful," he warned, and then took it from her, in case her shaking hands dropped it and set off an accidental shot. He set the gun on the pavement beside him.

"Marius," she began, her hands still shaking, "Why do you have that?"

His face crumpled one more, and he pulled her close. "I can't live without you Cosette, I just can't-"

"I cannot either," she said, a promise in her voice. "I don't see how I can go on without you, not for the rest of my life… it's impossible-"

"I know," he said, and put a hand on the back of her neck, touching her skin there, and brushing his lips against her hair. "I know. So…" he took a breath, and his tone lost all desperation. It dropped away to reveal a somber tone, so chilling that it seemed to echo the shadows of the grave and encompassed the true depth of the despair he was feeling. "I brought two."

Slowly, he pulled a second pistol from his pocket. "They each have two bullets, in case one doesn't fire."

That was when Cosette understood.

She stood, white as a ghost, and backed away from him, her legs feeling numb and not capable of holding her up.

"No!" she ordered, her voice weak, her eyes huge with terror. "No, Marius, no."

"Cosette, I _can't live without you,_" he said pleadingly, setting the pistol beside the other one and standing up. He put his hands on her arms and looked straight into her eyes, as if seeing deeply into her, far past just eye contact.

"Marius…" she protested. "I can't do that. And I won't let you do it either. My father…"

"I love you so much," he said, not trying to persuade her, more as just an expression of thought. He felt so much despair at that moment that he desperately held onto any positive feeling, any at all. All people have felt this- the glimmers of humor and of light that are searched out in a dark room, despite hopelessness. Even though his love for Cosette was what was causing the pain, it was still the only happiness he had.

"And I love you," she said tearfully. "Which is why I won't let you do this. Oh, God, Marius, why does the world seem to be against us?"

"Please don't cry," he said, taking her hands gently, and pulling her to sit beside him again the curb. Tears came thick and fast from her eyes, until her cheeks were very wet and her shoulders shook with quiet, choked sobs. He brushed his thumb along one of her cheeks, brushing away the tears, but more just fell in their place. "Don't weep, my love… please don't weep."

"I don't want to leave you," she said through her tears, her voice thick and hoarse. She recognized how easy it would be, really, to just put one of Marius' guns to her head and end it then, the pain, the suffering, end it all, but she knew she never would. Worse than the immediate pain was the image of the future: bleak, blank, dark, cold, lonely.

She had never told Marius this, or even admitted it to herself, but in her most alone thoughts late at night, she'd imagined them as married, him as her husband, a father, she as a mother, their home, their life, their children. It didn't matter how many they had, they would love them all. It was what she most wanted, he could give her that. He could give her everything. She saw their days, happy, each day beginning and ending the same, and yet exciting and new and full of love. She saw herself tucking in children at night, and then going to sleep beside her husband, felt imaginary impressions of his kisses on her lips, imagined his hands on her skin…

But that future was gone. It would be just her, with her father. She could learn to be happy with her father, but what happened when he, too, was gone? She saw nothing in her future. A lifetime without Marius- the thought chilled her soul. After she'd met him, she saw no way to go on without him. The pain she was feeling now would be nothing to when she woke up the next day, with the knowledge she would never see him again. And it would never get any easier. Never.

The gun seemed promising- she would not have to suffer so. There would be no bleak, empty days, staring out windows, dreaming away her life, wishing she was in the past.

But no. She would not do it.

He leaned into her and kissed her cheeks, tasting the salt of her tears on his lips. Watching her cry was like torture. Knowing her suffering was almost worse than imagining a life without her.

Oh, he couldn't do this. If he couldn't even watch her cry, there was no possibility that he could bring himself to harm her, or allow her to harm herself. Even if it meant they could be together, in death. He could not harm her.

But what would cause more harm to her; a quick death or a lifetime of suffering? If they were parted forever, surely the wound would be worse.

"I don't believe God brought us together only to have us watch as he tore us apart," Marius said, taking her hand and holding it tightly.

"Even after you left the other night," Cosette said, "I did not believe that I would lose you. I still had hope; I _knew_ that it would be fixed, and that we could be together. But it doesn't seem that way anymore… my father and I leave in the morning. I don't see what we can do."

"Don't say that," he said, closing his eyes. "I had hope too. I went to my grandfather's for the first time in four years. I should have known he had lost all esteem for me- he hated my father, and now he hates me. He would not give me permission to marry. I have no fortune, neither have you. He laughed in my face at my request."

She bowed her head.

"Marius," she said with an air of finality. "I will never forget you. Not in ten years, not in forty years, not when I'm an old woman and not when I'm dying. You will always be the other half of my soul, and you'll always be with me-"

"I'm not ready to say goodbye yet," he said urgently, his hands on her waist gripping tightly, as if he could hold on to her presence purely by manpower. "I'll never be ready to lose you… but we don't have to say goodbye yet. Please don't. Say anything else, Cosette. Talk about anything. Tell me everything else about you, anything you haven't told me before. If I have to live without you, I need as much of you that I can have. Tell about your childhood, about your girlhood, about your dreams, anything. Just talk, my love, please, and I'll listen."


	2. The Scales are Tipped

Meanwhile, at the Rue de la Chanvrerie, a rather different scene was playing out. There was a tumult within Enjolras. From his vantage point, he could clearly see just how many soldiers were coming against the barricade; there had to be at least a hundred officers down below, all getting ready for the next attack. He also knew exactly how decimated his own forces already were; all said and done, only fifteen men had survived that first volley of bullets. Too many had died already - Enjolras' throat tightened slightly as he thought of dear, noble Jehan, whose body, if he craned his neck slightly, he could see, shoved in a corner.

But no - Enjolras knew he could not allow his emotion to cloud his judgment in this most vital of decisions; after all, Robespierre himself had never done so! A nagging voice in the back of Enjolras' mind reminded him that Robespierre had never faced a situation quite like he order a retreat, and risk being remembered as a coward who cared more about his own skin than in the salvation of Mother France? Or, should he, Enjolras, the leader of Les Amis, command his men to fight to their deaths, for their sacrifice to never be given the proper consideration? The martyrs of a proper revolution, like the one he had fought in 1830 - they were remembered with reverence, and their sacrifice was honored in Republican circles. But a miniature street revolt - what good would that do, in the popular imagination! Time was quickly running out - the decision must be made now.

Enjolras was leaning towards retreat - but he worried how his comrades would take his decision. He shook his head slightly, as if to clear his mind, and went into the wine-shop to talk with Combeferre - after all, this type of decision - one involving morality - was much more Combeferre's forte. Combeferre had always had a better grasp on how their friends thought and felt than he did. Combeferre could help him.

In the wineshop, it soon became apparent that Combeferre was much too busy for a moral debate - there were dozens who were dying, and only two half-trained doctors to tend to them. Nonetheless, Enjolras pulled his blood-stained friend away for a moment's conversation. However, before he could say anything, Combeferre spoke first, his words falling out over themselves rapidly.

"Lucien - this is too much. Too many are wounded - we can't defend the barricade much longer. I think we'll have to retreat soon. You don't want to be thought of as a coward, I understand - and neither do I. But there's a difference between being a coward and being prudent."

Enjolras nearly collapsed with relief - if Combeferre, with his keenly alive sense of right and wrong, thought retreat was the right thing - he could stand by that decision.

"My thoughts exactly, my dear friend. Can these men be moved?"

Combeferre's face fell slightly as he replied. "There are so many, and we've done all we can. If we were to move them, I fear it would undo all our good doctoring."

Enjolras tensed his jaw. "We'll have to leave them. If they are dying, they're beyond the tyranny's so-called justice. And if they survive..." He didn't need to finish the sentence.

Gunshots from outside the wine-shop sounded before Combeferre could have a chance to reply. Without another word, Enjolras headed back out into the streets, where he could see National Guards starting to climb the barricade. The remnants of his army were fighting valiantly - Feuilly was fearlessly smashing skulls in with the butt of his carbine, and Bousset fighting with two pistols at the same time. But, Enjolras knew it would do no good. Within minutes - seconds, even - the barricade would be lost.

With a heavy heart, Enjolras gave the order for retreat. His men, his ever-trusting comrades, rallied around him, waiting for his next order. Enjolras ordered the bulk of the men to leave - to keep a low profile and stay in hiding until he would tell them it was safe. Along with Courfeyrac, Feuilly and Bousset, Enjolras retreated back into the wine-shop. Combeferre was still working, trying to administer brandy to a wretchedly convulsing man. Joly, on the opposite side of the room, was bandaging another soldier's bloody stump of a leg. Combeferre had evidently warned Joly of the retreat and, at the sound of footsteps, the two doctors finished their immediate task and, with their sorrow writ plain upon their face, joined the group of lieutenants.

Enjolras looked down at the dead and dying; the glassy eyes of the dead stared up at him, looking like the freshly caught fish in the markets of Marseilles, where Enjolras had grown up. The eyes of the dying were infinitely worse, though - Enjolras could see them all, desperately pleading with him not to leave them to the soldiers. But worst of all was the resignation in their eyes - they knew there was nothing he could do, however much as he wanted to. Enjolras felt that this sight of would accompany him to his grave. At last, Enjolras tore his eyes away from the human misery in front of him and began leading his men towards the wine-shop's kitchen, where he knew there was a back door through which they could escape. However, just as they were on the threshold of the kitchen, there was an explosion of noise; the National Guard had breached the barricade, and were breaking into the wine-shop.

Enjolras didn't stop to look back; he could hear the sound of gunshots, but he kept running, and he could hear the sound of his lieutenants running behind him. He wasn't sure whether the guns were being used to kill the wounded, or to stop their retreat, but he didn't even care. They flew into the street, and kept on sprinting; now, Enjolras could hear the sound of the National Guard pursuing them, their weaponry clanking as they themselves ran. Suddenly, there was a shot, and a shriek of pain - Enjolras at last looked back, and saw Combeferre, lying face down in the street, blood pooling around him. Without a moment's hesitation, Enjolras returned back to his wounded friend, shouting for the others to keep running. Enjolras picked Combeferre up and started to run again, this time a bit slower as he tried to avoid jolting the man in his arms. Enjolras could feel the blood seeping from the wound in Combeferre's stomach, could feel it dripping down onto the street. He looked down to ensure Combeferre was alright and, in the darkness, he could make out Combeferre's dear, familiar features that were currently twisted in pain.

The only thing Enjolras could do was to murmur, as he ran, a constant refrain of, "I'm so sorry, Justinien, I'm so sorry...you'll be alright, I promise..." Enjolras could not bear the thought of Combeferre not being alright.

In a short time, Enjolras caught up with the others - Courfeyrac had taken control of the group, and evidently had a destination in mind. Enjolras was, for once, happy to let Courfeyrac lead - it left Enjolras free to concentrate on Combeferre, who was still losing blood by the bucketful.

After a little while longer, Combeferre opened his eyes for the first time since Enjolras had first started to carry him. He looked up at the stars, saw Enjolras' face directly above his, and closed his eyes again. Combeferre rested his head against Enjolras' chest, where he could feel a rapidly beating heart, and gave a sigh of pure bliss. Enjolras looked down again at the noise, and smiled down at his friend.

At last, they arrived outside of a somewhat grubby apartment building, and Courfeyrac made the sign for them to stop. Enjolras, jolted out of his reverie by the sudden stop of movement, looked up at the building - and recognized it.

"Courfeyrac, not that I don't trust your judgement - but is it really wise for a group of revolutionaries on the run from the police to hide in one of our own apartments?"

"Ah, don't worry, my friend. The apartment is my dear old mother's property, that she inherited from her father. It's still under her maiden name, de Tournay. Even if they did recognize me, they'd never look for my place under "de Tournay". It's safe."

Enjolras somewhat doubted this theory, but was too desperate to put up an argument. Courfeyrac, beaming with pride over his cleverness, told the others to go around the back and wait for him, while he went in. It was past midnight, and the porter was asleep - but Courfeyrac apparently knew how to sneak in without awaking the porter. Enjolras duly led the group round to the back and, within a few moments, a window on the first floor opened, and Courfeyrac poked his head out.

"It's alright, the porter's sound asleep. Pass Combeferre through, and then climb up yourselves."

How, exactly, Enjolras was to reach Courfeyrac's window, Courfeyrac did not explain. Looking around, Enjolras noticed that several paving-stones had been torn up in the riots, and left on the side of the road. In a whisper that only slightly betrayed his panic, Enjolras ordered Feuilly, Bousset and Joly to stack up the paving stones in a tower that he could climb on to pass Combeferre through. Within a few minutes, a stair-like tower had been constructed, and Enjolras was able to pass Combeferre through to Courfeyrac's waiting arms.

Bousset and Joly went next, then Feuilly. Enjolras pulled himself through the window last, and surveyed the scene before him. Combeferre was lying on the couch near the window; Bousset and Joly were next to the candles, looking at Joly's hand, which was streaming blood all over the place - Joly must have been shot as well. Feuilly and Courfeyrac were talking in the corner, looking worried; Enjolras went over to join them.

Courfeyrac was saying, "...Pontmercy should be coming home soon, and then we can -"

Enjolras interrupted him with a snort. "Pontmercy? The Bonapartist? What good will he do?"

All Courfeyrac said was, "He's our only chance, Enjolras."


	3. The Father

Jean Valjean did not believe it. As he stared down at the reflection of her letter in the mirror, he felt his heart breaking. Valjean could not comprehend that Cosette, sweet Cosette, had been hiding something from him. At one time, the thought that she might leave him had been the only thing on his mind... but when it finally became a threat, his attention had turned the other way.

She was asleep then, in her bedroom. Obviously she didn't love the boy if she hadn't protested to their going to England. So desperate was Valjean that he did not think of how Cosette, who never protested about anything, actually had risen up in opposition to this decision. It had been subtle, but her argument had been there.

He had such an easy way out- all he had to do was burn the letter, and she would never know what happened to the boy. In a month, everything would be back to normal. They could live a happy life in England.

Valjean walked outside, and sat on the curb, not knowing exactly what he was waiting for, but half-expecting a reply to come soon. Surely the boy would at least write back, if not come here himself? If he wrote back, Valjean could just pocket the letter. If he arrived, Valjean could confront him. If he did neither, and ignored Cosette's letter, he was not worth her tears anyway.

He walked a few feet away, towards the corner, and then put his head in his hands, and sat on the curb. The night was quiet. No one was around, because of the fighting.

"Please, Father," he pleaded to God. "Don't let this be true."

A clock far away chimed.

"Two in the morning," a man's voice came, muted from the buildings around them both. Apparently he was not the only one out.

"You aren't going, are you?" a woman's voice said- but it was hard to understand. Her voice sounded thick and full of tears, not easily discerned.

"I said I'd stay until sunrise," the man said. His voice sounded young. It was silent for a long time. "Where will you go?"

"Sorry?"

"In England," the voice said, sounding very monotonous, crushed down and serious. Valjean's blood ran cold. "Where will you go in England?"

"London. Maybe... maybe we could write? I have your address now," she mused, her voice clearer now that it was not masked by tears; he recognized it instantly. Valjean's hands started to shake. He was already here, the brute, with Cosette.

"Oh, God... write?" the young man said desperately. "That's better than nothing, I suppose, but the thought is so dreadful. Oh, Cosette- don't go, please don't. Stay here with me, I promise I won't ever leave you, I'll marry you as soon as I'm old enough to do it without my grandfather's permission..."

Valjean could not bring himself to get up and interrupt this conversation. He did not want to lay eyes on the two lovers, together, and see his daughter as someone other than the young girl she had been. He did not want to see her with her... with her lover. The thought was bitter to him.

"...we'll be poor, but who cares? I don't- if you want me, you'll have to give up money, but I'll give you everything I have, I'll love you every day, Cosette, _every day_, just _don't leave me-_"

The boy's voice was cut off sharply, but no sound came. Cosette did not answer him. It was quiet then.

Quiet- why was it quiet? Valjean stood up, and quickly went around the corner. It took a surprising amount of courage for him to show himself and step out from behind the wall. A man who had faced the galleys, a man who had supreme strength of body and will, was afraid of two children.

When he did, he felt something inside him break. He saw the back of the boy's head, Cosette's hands in his hair, kissing. He did not perceive the rest of the scene before speaking.

"Take your hands off her!" he commanded. If he had looked, he would have seen that the boy's hands were actually not touching Cosette- they were hanging from his sides, resting on the curb behind him, as if the kiss had caught him by surprise. He was leaning back, away from her, as she embraced him. And Valjean did not know that this was the very first time anything of that nature had happened between the lovers.

What was he doing with her? She was so naive, it was clear, she was just a girl- he was taking advantage of her, of her sadness, of her youth, and using it to his benefit. Valjean felt the old instincts, the ones he'd abandoned long ago, rise within him. He longed to strangle the boy.

The two jumped wildly. Marius whipped around, and scrambled to his feet. Cosette stood up so fast it was as though she'd been burned.

"Father!" she exclaimed, but had no idea what to say next. The two were dumbstruck.

"Come inside," he said coldly.

"Father-"

"Now," he ordered. He turned his eyes to glare at the young man before him with inexpressible hatred. Valjean's eyes drifted to the ground where they had been sitting just a few moments before.

Two guns lay on the pavement.

Marius followed Cosette's father's eyes, and his stomach dropped, instantly knowing what conclusion the other man would jump to. Yes, he and Cosette had discussed a double suicide, but they hadn't gone through with it! He had no real intention of going through with it, did he? Well, maybe on himself, but when it came down to it, he would not have been able to harm Cosette... that had never been the intention.

"No, Monsieur-" he said instantly.

"What is going on here?" Valjean thundered. He reached for Cosette's hand and almost roughly pulled her towards himself, and away from the boy.

"Father, please-" Cosette sobbed.

"Someone tell me what is going on _right this minute_ before I call the police," he said, the first thing that came to his mind. He knew that even he would call the authorities if it came to a threat on Cosette's life.

Cosette gave Marius a warning look. She knew her father, and knew it was better for her to explain things, and for him to lay low for a minute.

"Father, I know how horrid this looks, but it's not what you think. Marius just came to... to say goodbye, before we leave for tomorrow-"

"And the guns?" he spat. "Why were those necessary? And you shouldn't be out here in the middle of the night, with God-knows-who-"

"I'm not with God-knows-who!" Cosette said. "I'm with Monsieur Marius Pontmercy, who I know and who I love and who would never hurt me-"

"Then why are there _guns?_" Valjean actually yelled. His panic was so acute that he was shaking. "You are so daft as to think he's not going to hurt you? What could make you be so stupid, Cosette?" he yelled. "I don't care what you say, you don't know him! You can't trust just any young man who says you're beautiful, Cosette!"

"Stop yelling at her!" Marius said. "She's right! I was not going to hurt her! I would _never_ hurt her! There are guns because there's fighting on the street and it's dangerous to be out unarmed. And you're right, she shouldn't be out alone in the middle of the night, but she wasn't alone! She was with me!"

"That does not make me feel any better," Valjean said cruelly. "Come, Cosette," he said angrily. "Say goodbye to _Monsieur_ Pontmercy." He said the title with a hiss, as if even a simple word of respect was undeserved. "We'll be leaving directly in the morning."

"Marius..." Cosette sobbed, looking at him helplessly, as her father tugged her arm in the direction of their apartment. "I..."

"I know," he said. She knew he loved her, he didn't need to say it again. "Me too."

"Don't do what I know you want to," she called after him, thinking of the guns again, and his grave desperation. "Don't!"

"Cosette-" he called one more time, but she was out of earshot. He swore, and kicked one of his feet on the cobblestone, feeling his hopes drain out of him.

A shot rang out from far away. Marius looked up at the sky, illuminated and orange. The fire from the streetlamps was reflecting on dusk and exploded gunpowder from the fighting. The fighting where his friends were.

He would not kill himself, because he had all but promised Cosette not to. But that did not mean he had to continue to live.

Marius took off at a run towards his apartment.

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><p><strong>Hey! We would love it if you would review! We also respond to PMs. Moreover, we just want your thoughts- this is our first combined story, and we think our mixture of talents makes the story good. But should we do more of it? Let us know what you like!<strong>


	4. A Crisis at Home

Marius stood in the street for a moment, rooted to the ground by the enormity of what had just happened. He had lost Cosette. He had lost her forever. Marius' reverie was broken by a violent shout, from a few streets away; the shout was followed by gunshots and other panicked cries. Marius, then, saw what he ought to do, very clearly before him. He must die. He had lost Cosette - what was the point of living? He would not kill himself with either of the guns; no, that was tainted with her memory. No, first he must suffer before he can die. He had been so enormously stupid as to lose his life source, the goddess of his world - he deserved to suffer as penance.

Marius did not know what exactly he was planning to do; he walked to Courfeyrac's apartment building, as one possessed. It started to rain, half-way through his walk home, but he did not care. He remembered once at Rue Plumet, it had started to rain, and he and Cosette had taken refuge under a lovely, overgrown oak tree, while the thunder and lightening crashed around them. Cosette had loved it. But what was the point of the rain now, if he couldn't see the delighted wonder on her face?

Marius reached Courfeyrac's apartment building. He knocked on the door; after a long time, the porter answered and let him in. It was clear he had risen the porter from his bed. But Marius didn't care about being impolite. Without another word, he pushed inside, and climbed the stairs up to the first floor. He let himself into the apartment - Courfeyrac never locked the door - and was confronted by a sight he would never forget.

A group of young men, dishevelled, sweaty, exhausted, standing at various points around the apartment, all with their attention focussed on the two figures in the middle of the room; one, a badly wounded young man lying on a couch, weakly looking around at his surroundings; the other, an angelically beautiful, blonde boy who was looking down at the other young man with unmistakable tenderness in his eyes. Before Marius could say anything, Courfeyrac, who he had previously not recognized from amongst the group, came forward.

"Ah, my dear friend! Now you have arrived, the party can begin!" Courfeyrac threw his head back and laughed charmingly, as if it were the most amusing of jokes.

The blonde boy, without taking his eyes off the wounded man, said in a warning tone, "Courfeyrac, please, the task at hand?"

"Oh, yes, of course, Enjolras. Just trying to lighten the tension a bit. Well, you see, my dear Pontmercy, we happened to be running away from some rather pugnacious National Guards, and it just so happened -"

Enjolras spoke up again, now with an edge of anger. "Courfeyrac!"

"Fine. You heard, Marius, about the riots after the funeral?"

Marius nodded.

"Les Amis - that is to say, the men of the august company whose company you rejected - were involved in said riots. Only we don't like to think of it as a mere "riot" - it would be a disrespect to the revolution to call it only that!"

Marius spoke for the first time since entering the apartment. "Courfeyrac, not that I don't appreciate your editorializing things, but I'd really rather like to know what you're all doing here."

Courfeyrac, seemingly reproved, explained what had happened at Rue de la Chanvrerie. Marius said nothing throughout, but just stood near the corner, looking more and more angry and worried by the moment. He could barely contain his response until Courfeyrac finished the story.

"Courfeyrac, what on earth were you thinking? The police will track you down, and they'll arrest you, and they'll arrest me along with you, and we'll all be condemned to die because you couldn't control yourselves! You know what, maybe I should just turn you in, the whole sorry lot of you, you can't do this to me!"

Enjolras, who had stayed very quiet and still during Courfeyrac's tale, now jumped to his feet and grabbed Marius by the shoulders.

"Pontmercy! You don't like me and I certainly don't like you. The last thing you want to do in the world is help us; I understand that. But you have to. Courfeyrac is your friend, and we, we are your brothers. If you turn us in, our lives will be on your conscience. When you're an old man, alone, on your deathbed, do you want to remember the six men you condemned to die, simply because you were too much of a coward? Or, do you want to look back, and remember with pride the fact that your better nature won out, that you stood up for what's right and good?"

Enjolras, breathing heavily, relaxed his hold on Marius, who immediately jerked away. The tension was broken by an anguished cry from the man on the couch. The blonde boy immediately returned to the man's side and said, in a whisper so quiet that Marius had to strain to hear,

"Please, Combeferre, you can do it. Keep breathing. We'll get help for you soon, I promise."

Enjolras bent his head over Combeferre's for a moment, before rising to his feet.

"Courfeyrac - Feuilly - Bousset - Pontmercy - in the bedroom, now."

Marius resented being ordered about so, but a glance from Courfeyrac told him it would be better for him to obey. He followed the others into the room, where Enjolras had already seated himself at the desk. He didn't look up; he was finishing writing something. Enjolras still didn't acknowledge them, as he carefully sprinkled pounce over the writing. He had applied the blotting paper before he looked up at the waiting group.

"My friends. It is better that you know the full situation. Joly and Combeferre are the only ones among our number who know any medicine. Combeferre needs medical attention, now. Joly has sustained a serious wound to his right hand that has, for our purposes, crippled him. I don't trust any doctors not to talk, and we don't have the funds to bribe a surgeon to keep quiet. We will have to find a solution ourselves. Combeferre is still bleeding; our most important task is to stop the blood. Joly's hand has stopped bleeding, but the wound needs to be cleaned and bandaged. Now - Pontmercy, go down to the porter, ask for hot water. I don't care how you excuse it, say you want to take a bath. Courfeyrac, I need you to start looking for old clothes that could be used as bandages - don't give me that look, I know you have a whole drawer of out-of-fashion cravats alone. Feuilly, help Joly onto the pallet by the window, and get him comfortable. Bousset, I want you to go and get Musichetta, she'll can help Joly more than we can. Tell her to go to number 18, rue St. Denis, and ask for Charlotte. I've written her a note, she'll go with Musichetta. Then, she and Charlotte should come directly here."

There was a questioning look from all of the young men standing before Enjolras. Courfeyrac spoke for all of them, asking, "Who's Charlotte?"

"Combeferre's older sister. She's his only relative here in Paris - she'd want to know."

Enjolras took the scrap of paper on the desk that he had been writing on, folded it up, and handed it to Bousset, who started to air his opinions that it wasn't safe for Musichetta to walk the streets alone. Without another word, Enjolras went back out into the living room, where Combeferre and Joly were grimacing in equal expressions of pain. Courfeyrac, Feuilly and Bousset went about completing their tasks relatively cheerfully, given the circumstances. Stunned by this harsh dismissal, Marius, however, remained fixed to the ground. After a moment, he went out into the living room, where Feuilly was helping Joly to his feet, and Enjolras was kneeling next to Combeferre, evidently informing the injured man of the state of affairs. As Enjolras placed his hands behind Combeferre's neck, and at the backs of his knees, Marius could hear him add, "This will hurt, I'm afraid. I'll try to be gentle, though." Enjolras picked Combeferre up and, with the greatest of care, carried him to the bedroom. Marius, dazed by the events of the last hour, watched dumbly.

Meanwhile, Courfeyrac had assembled a collection of old cravats and waistcoats, which he felt could be sacrificed. He brought them to Enjolras, who immediately began ripping the clothes into long strips. Courfeyrac grabbed a flowery waistcoat and pressed it to Combeferre's wound, which was still gushing blood. As the waistcoat became increasingly soaked in blood, Courfeyrac looked about wildly for a replacement. In doing so, he caught sight of Marius, standing about aimlessly, and shouted,

"Marius! Get the water! We have no time for you to be lackadaisical!"

This cut through Marius' reverie somewhat, and he remembered what he was to do. Going out into the hallway, he called down to the porter. When no response came, he went downstairs, and knocked on the porter's door. After a few minutes, the porter appeared, wrapped in a threadbare dressing gown, and looking very bleary-eyed indeed.

"What is it now, Monsieur Marius? You do realize it's past midnight?"

"I need a big pot of hot water - not boiling, just hot. The biggest pot you have."

The porter gave him a disbelieving look.

Marius added, "If you can prepare that now, I'll wait here and carry it up myself."

"If I may ask, Monsieur, why, at such a late hour, do you need hot water?"

"I got wet coming home - I'd rather like to take a bath." The lie did not sound natural coming from Marius' lips, and he nervously waited for the porter to ask what was really going on in the apartment. The porter, however, seemed too exhausted to question Marius, and did as he asked. After some time, Marius carried the large pot up the stairs, the red-hot handles wrapped in towels. He pushed the door of the apartment open, sloshing hot water down his front in the process. His skin burning, Marius carried the water into the bedroom with considerably more care, at last depositing it on the bedside table. Enjolras, who had evidently been waiting anxiously, immediately dipped a cloth into the water, and began to carefully dab away at Combeferre's wound, which had stopped bleeding. Luckily, the student had fallen asleep, and, as such, could not feel Enjolras' ministrations, which were doubtless very painful.

Courfeyrac filled an empty, clean wine bottle with water, and, taking a cloth, knelt on the floor next to Joly's pallet, and began to clean his wound. Joly, who was still awake, groaned loudly in pain. After the first cry, however, Joly seemed resolved to bear his suffering more manfully, and kept silent throughout the rest of the operation, although his pale face and white lips still betrayed his pain. Courfeyrac finished cleaning the wound and, as he left to wash his hands, Feuilly took over, and bandaged Joly's hand. This done, Joly fell into a fitful sleep, seemingly overcome with exhaustion.

Enjolras, meanwhile, was still cleaning Combeferre's wound. He seemed to have found something that worried him greatly. After a few minutes of just looking, he called Courfeyrac, Feuilly, and Marius over to confirm his opinion. There, wedged deep within in the tissue, was a bullet.

"It must come out, of course! It can't stay in." Courfeyrac was the first to speak.

"I don't dare to - if I make a mistake, it will finish him off. I hardly know anything about medicine, and I assume none of you are much better off. We can't take the bullet out without a significant risk." Enjolras looked down again at the wound.

"We can't just leave it in!" Feuilly came into the conversation. "I've read about this, if it is left in, it could cause an infection that could kill Combeferre. We have to take the bullet out!"

Enjolras buried his head in his hands. Marius, who had remained silent up until now, spoke.  
>"There's nothing we can do about it at present. We're all exhausted - even if you tried to take the bullet out, there's a better chance than not that you'd make a fatal mistake in your exhaustion. I suggest that we bandage him up, and see how he does in a few hours. It's all we can do."<p>

Enjolras seemed ready to protest, but, after a moment, he visibly surrendered.

"You're right. We all need to rest, and we'll address the matter first thing in the morning."

He seized a handful of the cloth strips, and began to wrap them around Combeferre's torso, refusing all offers of assistance. The finished product was somewhat clumsy, showing the lack of knowledge in the doctor - but it can be assured that no bandaging had ever been done with more sincerity and affection.

Courfeyrac and Feuilly both collapsed on the floor, near Joly's pallet, and rested their heads against the wall. Within minutes, they were asleep. Marius retreated to the front room, where, as the couch was drenched in blood, he lay down on the floor. He didn't sleep - his mind was still buzzing, coping with both the loss of Cosette, and now with the nightmarish situation in which he was now entangled. Enjolras sat on the windowsill, looking out over the city. He could hear the shouts of protesters, and the sounds of gunshots and cannon fire. He wished, more than ever, that he was back out on the streets, fighting. Fighting was easy. It was this situation in the flat that was so draining - and he was powerless to change it. Enjolras sighed, and rested his head against the glass, settling in for a long night that he knew would not end with the dawn.

* * *

><p><strong>Reviews? <strong>


	5. Combeferre's Crisis

It was near dawn when Enjolras at last roused himself from his perch near the window and crouched down next to Combeferre's bedside. He had been in a tumult all night, trying desperately to think of a solution to their predicament. Pontmercy, Courfeyrac and Feuilly were unlikely to have any other suggestions to offer; Joly was sleeping fitfully; and Bousset had yet to return with Musichetta and Charlotte. Thinking over his available men and resources, Enjolras' mind turned to Grantaire, for the first time since the retreat. With an almost painful jerk, Enjolras realized that the drunkard had been left behind; he was, by now, almost certainly dead. But, no - Enjolras could not allow himself to get distracted by regretful thoughts about a worthless wastrel, not while a worthy soldier of the Republic, not to mention his best friend, was suffering.

A persistent voice in the back of his mind told him that he could do nothing for Combeferre; why shouldn't he think about Grantaire. Smothering this voice forcefully, Enjolras, as we have said, retook his place at Combeferre's bedside that he had abandoned the night before. At the slight noise of his footsteps, Combeferre's eyes opened. Looking around for a moment, and finding the occupants of the bedroom all sound asleep save for himself and Enjolras, Combeferre seemed to relax slightly.

Before Enjolras could say a word,, though, Combeferre smiled weakly, and said, "Tell me how bad it is. Be honest - I can always tell when you're lying."

The trust, mingled with resignation, in his voice was crushing to Enjolras. Fighting back emotion, Enjolras managed to keep his voice steady, and to keep to the bare facts.

"I can't honestly say how bad it is - none of us are doctors. I've cleaned your wound, and bandaged you up as best I can. But I believe there is still a bullet lodged in your stomach, and I don't dare to try to take it out."

"It is, as I feared, then." Combeferre was quiet for a moment. "We can't get a proper surgeon, of course. And Joly, poor boy, can't do anything. Anatomy has never been his strong suit, and nothing against our dear Malade Imaginaire, but I wouldn't let him near me with a knife."

There was something in Combeferre's voice that made Enjolras slightly uneasy.

"Do I detect a "but" in that statement, mon ami?"

"I've been thinking of a plan, while I've been lying here." Combeferre paused before going on. "If you would be willing to help me a bit, I believe that I can remove the bullet myself."

This caught Enjolras by surprise, and his reply betrayed this.

"Of course I'd be willing - I'd do anything for you. You're my most trusted lieutenant. But how do you exactly propose to do it? I've never heard of anyone who's operated on himself, especially on an area of the body as hard to see as the stomach."

Combeferre grinned. "That, my friend, is where your knowledge fails you. Do you remember that nice Republican English doctor that I write to? Dr. Maturin?"

Enjolras furrowed his brow, looking confused.

"Have I not told you about Dr. Maturin? He was in Paris at the time of the Revolution, he's a top rate fellow. He's served as a doctor for the English Navy for most of his career - he's retired now, of course, but I wrote to him about his treatise on bone structure. He wrote back, very kindly, and we've been corresponding since then. Anyways, Dr. Maturin was wounded in the stomach - a freak accident, I believe. There was no suitably skilled surgeon available - you know how terribly behind the English are in medicine, as a general rule - and so, he operated on himself. The modus operandi was to have his friend, Captain Aubrey, hold a mirror at such an angle that Dr. Maturin could see what he was doing. There was another doctor on scene to ensure there were no critical errors. I suspect that the good doctor was rather well-laced with brandy, or he'd never have been able to get through it." Combeferre paused for breath.

"If we could re-enact a similar experiment here - Joly can watch to make sure I don't do any critical damage - Courfeyrac can hold the mirror - Feuilly can-"

Enjolras had hitherto listened to this speech silently, all the while shaking his head gravely. At this point, however, he broke Combeferre off.

"No! We will not risk your life on some foolish scheme dreamed up by some backward Englishman!" Combeferre started to protest; Enjolras paid it no mind. "It's too dangerous, there's no way that you could bear the pain and operate at the same time. You're a good surgeon, my friend, but no-one is that good."

Combeferre looked upwards for a moment, as if to exhort a higher power for strength, before turning his unfocused gaze back to Enjolras.

"And what, might I ask, is your suggestion? Do I just lie here and wait to be carried off by a malignant fever while you lot wring your hands and try to come up with a better solution?"

Enjolras, although slightly rebuked by this retort, was still not won over.

"And if you die during the operation, due to your own impatience?"

"Then I die. But I don't think I will. And if I am lost, it will have been in the service of my country, and in the service of my fellow man. Is there a better cause to die for? You, of all people, should understand that!"

"How will you bear the pain? It will be severe." Enjolras, against his will, could feel himself slowly be persuaded.

Combeferre seemed to sense this, and pressed his advantage. "I don't dare to administer opium, it is the best way to dull pain, but it dulls the senses along with it. Not for our purposes. Brandy will work, though, I think. I can hold my liquor, Courfeyrac taught me how to do that when I was 15. The brandy will dull the pain, but not inhibit my senses. That will work."

Enjolras remained silent for a moment, staring down at his long, slender fingers. He appeared to be in serious reflection, but, instead, he was cursing his own lack of knowledge, and the lack of skill and dexterity in those fingers. Taking a deep breath, he came to a decision that he felt sure he would come to regret.

"Alright, you can operate. But everything must be prepared and planned first!"

Combeferre smiled, the queer, familiar smile that only graced his face when particularly pleased.

"Than you, my friend. It is the only way. And it will be a great contribution to science, I am sure. I am going to rest now, I'll need my strength for later. Joly can tell you what is needed."

He closed his eyes. Enjolras stayed where he was, looking down at Combeferre. After a moment, Combeferre's eyes flew open.

"Oh! My medical kit! I left it in the Corinthe. I need it. What will we do?"

Enjolras placed a finger over Combeferre's mouth to quiet him. "You have gotten me to agree. Now, rest, You need your sleep. We'll get what is needed."

Combeferre, now exhausted, obeyed implicitly. He closed his eyes and was, within moments, asleep again. Enjolras stayed at his bedside for quite some time, his head bowed and fingers clasped in what appeared to be fervent prayer.

Sudden noise from the front room of the apartment broke this reverie. With a final look down at Combeferre's sweaty, pale face, Enjolras went to find out the source of the noise. Going into the front room, he saw that Bousset, accompanied by Musichetta and Charlotte, had returned. Courfeyrac, ever the charmer, was clasping Musichetta's hands in his own, as he exclaimed, "What took you so long? Joly has been crying out for both his friend and his lover all night! Apparently, we were not enough to satisfy that!"

Enjolras shook Bousset's hand, saying, "Thank you, Bousset. Were there any problems?"

"Musichetta was ready to go in an instant, and she fetched Charlotte. Charlotte's employer, the old bat, gave 'Chetta some trouble in taking Charlotte away, an hour before the end of her shift. But Musichetta was charming enough that the old man let them go. But then, right as the three of us were coming here, Musichetta attracted the notice of a group of soldiers. I swear, Enjolras, the whole bloody French army is swarming the streets of Paris, all raging drunk. So we ducked into an abandoned shop and hid there until most of the soldiers had found their way into the beds of grisettes, and the rest too drunk to do anything. And, here we are."

Enjolras nodded, grateful for having a man like Bousset on his side. He tried to convey that gratitude as he said, "Thank you, Bousset. Not many would have done what you have done tonight." With a rare smile, Enjolras now turned his attention to the other new arrivals. That smile was quickly replaced with a look of dismay, as he saw that Musichetta, having removed her cloak and tossed it to the floor, was now holding court in the middle of the room. That is to say that Musichetta was sitting on the most comfortable chair in the apartment, and flirting gaily with Courfeyrac as if this were a garden party. She was also trying to engage the attentions of Feuilly and Pontmercy who, Enjolras was gratified to see, were both staunchly unresponsive. Charlotte, on the other hand, was still standing in a wet and muddy cloak, looking pale and worried.

Irritably telling Bousset to see to his mistress, Enjolras went to join Charlotte, who immediately began questioning him in a flurry of Occitan-accented French.

"Oh, Monsieur Enjolras, is was so kind of you to tell me about Justinien! How is he? Can I see him? Poor boy, he doesn't deserve all this It was good of you to rescue him so! He always told me that you were his dearest friend! How kind monsieur is! But, about my brother. Take me to him at once, please."

The familiar accent of his native province, the scatter-brained mix of worry and thanks, all forcefully reminded Enjolras of his own mother. She would be safe at home in Marseille - she wouldn't even be awake yet. Enjolras felt a sudden burst of homesickness and nostalgia - something he had never felt before. He wanted, at that moment, more than anything, to be a little boy again, without all these cares and responsibilities, with the surest knowledge of his parents' love and affection. But those days were gone, and the present and the future must be faced with courage.

Waving aside Charlotte's thanks, Enjolras led her into the bedroom. She immediately threw aside her cloak, which landed soaking wet and muddy in Enjolras' surprised hands, and flung herself on her brother. Combeferre suddenly awoke with a cry of pain, but Charlotte, in her reverie, paid no attention. Bursting into tears, she let out a a rapid and highly excitable torrent of Occitan. Enjolras, who had been raised in a distinctly upper-class household, had only been taught pure "Northern French" as a child. He had picked up a good deal of their regional dialect through his friendship with the lower-class Combeferres, but, even then, he had to concentrate hard to understand what Charlotte was saying.

"Oh, Justinien, how could you have done such a thing? To leave your poor sister alone and defenceless in Paris, and all the children still at home! How would little David have gotten to go to the Sorbonne, if you don't live to become a doctor and pay his way? Selfish boy! You're lucky Enjolras was there to save you. How could you -"

Enjolras decided to let it go now further. Taking Charlotte by the arm, he pulled her into a corner of the room, and confronted her with a frightening expression on his face.

"Mademoiselle, your brother is very ill indeed and, if all goes well, he will be undergoing major surgery later today. He needs neither your scoldings or your tears. I understand you're upset, but you must control yourself. For Justinien's sake, no?"

Enjolras tried to be gentle, but his anger and fear came through in place. To a young provincial girl, he was terrifying. Ducking her head in acceptance of his rebuke, she returned to Combeferre's bedside. Charlotte pulled up a chair next to her brother, and perching herself delicately upon it, started to sponge his forehead. She was now a model of that unshakeable inner strength that is peculiar to womankind - except for the tears that were working their way down her cheeks.

Far out of his comfort zone now, Enjolras coughed awkwardly, and left brother and sister alone. However, his effort was negated by Charlotte, who followed him out to the front room.

"Oughtn't you to be with Justinien, mademoiselle?" Enjolras asked coolly.

"Oh, I will be in a moment. I just want to ask you. Monsieur, I will have to leave in a few hours to go to work. Monsieur Jambon will not allow me to take more time off, and keep my station. So I won't be here for Justinien's operation later today. But, if he asks for me, will you please tell him that I will be here soon, and that I'm thinking of him, and that I'm praying for him? And would you please give him a kiss from me, right before the operation? Please, Monsieur, will you?"

Enjolras felt himself go red. It wasn't Charlotte's question itself that made him blush - it was the idea of kissing Combeferre. He felt the tips of his ears start to get hot - and cleared his throat, as if by doing so he would purge his mind of the half-disturbing, half-pleasurable fantasies that had suddenly sprung up.

He nodded tersely at Charlotte, not trusting his voice yet, and, with a humble nod of thanks, she returned to the bedroom and shut the door.

Enjolras stood rooted to the spot - where had that reaction come from? However, he was spared from this frightening plane of self-reflection by the sound of quarrelling behind him.

Half-gratefully, he turned his attention to the other inhabitants of the room. Bousset and Musichetta appeared to be quarrelling over the Courfeyrac situation, while the man himself stood nearby, escalating the conflict with oh-so-witty comments.

Enjolras, shook to the core as he was by the events of the last 24 hours, was not in the mood for tolerating this foolishness. In a terrible, icy tone, he said, "Bousset, mademoiselle, what do you think you are doing? While you two are engaged in a petty argument, your best friend, Joly, is lying, in pain, in the next room, alone and forsaken by those who ought to love him the most. Go comfort him, and forget about whatever idiocy you're arguing about."

Musichetta started to protest but Bousset, knowing Enjolras, somewhat better, pulled her into the bedroom before she could say anything.

Feeling immeasurably weary now, Enjolras turned to a sheepish Courfeyrac, and fixated his frightening look on him. "Don't think I've forgotten about you, Courfeyrac. For as long as this situation persists, you are directly forbidden from flirting with anyone and anything in a skirt. That's an order. As soon as life returns to normal, you can do whatever you like. Until then..."

Like Bousset, Courfeyrac knew Enjolras well enough to sense the danger, and accepted this order without a word. At the shamed look on Courfeyrac's face, Enjolras felt something akin to guilt, but he quashed it, turning his attention to the room at large.

"Citizens. As you know, Combeferre must be operated on within the next 24 hours, to avoid the development of a complicating infection. He himself has proposed, and I have agreed, that he should operate on himself. This endeavor is not without risk. But it is our best chance at saving our dear, dear friend." Enjolras paused for breath, and swallowed heavily before continuing.

"It is my wish that we all do our part to make this surgery a success. I would expect no less from the members of Les Amis de l'ABC. I now count you among our number, Pontmercy - you are as involved in this situation as we, and you will face similar consequences if we are found out. You are, hence, one of us. I trust that you will take part equally?" Enjolras fixated Marius with a penetrating stare, and Marius, feeling as if he had no other option, nodded his assent.

"Good. Now, to practical matters. To operate, Combeferre will need his bag of tools which, in the retreat, was left at the Corinthe. We need that bag. Now, I don't think it is advisable for myself, Courfeyrac, or Feuilly to leave this apartment; look at what happened with Bousset. The streets are swarming with soldiers, and we're sure to be recognized. Bousset is also, of course, at risk. Combeferre and Joly cannot go, for obvious reasons. That leaves Pontmercy, Musichetta, and Charlotte."

Feuilly spoke up. "The girls cannot go. It isn't safe. It seems like a foolish thing to worry about at a time like this - but a pretty young girl wandering around streets filled with soldiers? She's just asking to be raped."

Enjolras nodded his assent. "Which brings me to my conclusion. Pontmercy, you must be the one to go."

Marius started to protest, but halted. He had promised Enjolras that he would do his part to make the surgery a success; and, in any case, what did it matter if he was arrested? He didn't have Cosette - thus life was not worth living anyways.

"Very well. I will do it. Where is the Corinthe?"

It took another hour for Enjolras to explain the exact location of the bag within the Corinthe, with helpful interjections from Feuilly and Courfeyrac. Just as the city was starting to wake up, Marius went into the bedroom, to exchange his sweaty and stained shirt for a clean one of Courfeyrac's. As he did so, a quiet and demure knock sounded on the front door.

Enjolras, Feuilly and Courfeyrac all froze in terror; what if it was a police inspector come to arrest them all? Nonetheless, Courfeyrac, reasoning that no police inspector in the history of France had ever had such a delicate knock, fearlessly went to the door, and opened it.


	6. Courfeyrac's Help

Courfeyrac opened the door, and found himself looking at a thoroughly scared young woman, who looked very shocked to see him in the doorway. She had her hands clutched in front of her, and did not seem at all comfortable in her surroundings. Struck by how pretty she was, Courfeyrac stared at the unknown girl for a moment, as she stared right back at him.

Shielding the room from her vision, Courfeyrac leaned against the doorframe and smiled slyly at her. "May I help you?"

The girl took a moment to respond; Courfeyrac could not tell if she didn't know what to say, or if she was just working up her courage to speak. At last, she spoke. "Is this where Monsieur Marius lives?"

"Monsieur Marius?" Courfeyrac asked, puzzled. He slid smoothly throw the opening of the door, so as not to show any of the people who were in the apartment behind him. He kept the door ajar with his hand, but closed enough so the pretty young woman could not see in.

"Yes, Monsieur. I know it's quite early-"

"What is it you need from him?"

Cosette instantly checked. She knew Marius lived with his friend Courfeyrac- and she assumed this was him. But she realized that she had not planned to encounter him at all, and had no plausible story prepared.

"I need to talk to him. I need his help with something."

Courfeyrac flashed his array of sharp white teeth in his customary, charming smile.

"Ma belle mademoiselle, I can assure you, I can help you with anything you wish. I can fulfill your wishes perhaps better even than Monsieur Pontmercy could." Before he could help himself, Courfeyrac winked at her cheerily.

Cosette furrowed her brow, caught off guard.

"You are Monsieur Courfeyrac, is that correct?"

"It seems my fame precedes me!" he exclaimed, as if to himself. "Be honest- what have you heard about me? I sincerely hope it's not all bad. The rumors going round about me are not all true, I assure you."

Flustered, Cosette blushed slightly. "I haven't heard any rumours, good or bad. I just know that you're Marius' friend. And I need to talk with him. Please, Monsieur, is he home?"

"No…?" Courfeyrac said slowly, as if he was not sure. In truth, he was just resolved not to open the door and have her see the apartment filled with rebels, or risk the dreamy-headed Marius letting the information slip.

Cosette's face fell. What would she do now? Just go back home and accept that she would never see him again?

"Oh."

"Oh, Mademoiselle, you needn't look so sad! As I said, any service you need from Monsieur Pontmercy can be fulfilled much more aptly by myself. It's heartbreaking to see such a pretty lady look frightened."

"I don't know what to do!" she confessed. "I saw Marius earlier tonight, and I thought he would be here- oh, he's not at the fighting, is he?"

"How do you know about the fighting?" Courfeyrac said, maybe too quickly.

"He told me about it. Oh, he mustn't be there! I have to go find him, if he is- I can't let him do something rash. Please, Monsieur, tell me where the fighting is-"

"I most certainly will not!" Courfeyrac exclaimed. "That is no place for a you! And besides, there's no fighting this minute. Marius wouldn't be there even if there was."

"So you do know where he is!"

It was Courfeyrac's turn to be flustered. "I-"

"Cosette? Is that you?" Marius, hearing the familiar voice through the slightly ajar door, now slid into the hallway in the same awkward fashion as Courfeyrac. Cosette raised her eyebrows. He looked surprised, and very, very tired. "What on earth are you doing here?"

"You said he wasn't home!" Cosette scolded Courfeyrac.

"What have you been saying to her?" Marius asked, instantly suspicious. He'd spent many nights wandering till late, so as to wait for the apartment to be unoccupied by Courfeyrac's various bedmates. He knew how he was with women.

"No words a gentlemen would not say," Courfeyrac said with overdone innocence. Marius looked at him steadily, but then laughed tiredly and gave up.

"I suppose I've been friends with you long enough to tell you... Courfeyrac, this is Mademoiselle Cosette Fauchelevent. Cosette, this is Courfeyrac, my best friend."

"It's nice to meet you, Monsieur," Cosette said.

"He's not a Monsieur," Marius said.

"So this is Mademoiselle "Sorry-Courfeyrac-I-have-work-to-do-and-can't-go-out"? This is Mademoiselle "I'll-come-home-at-one-in-the-morning"? This is Mademoiselle "I'm-going-to-smile-like-an-idiot-all-hours-of-the-day"? This is-"

"Enough! Yes, alright? Yes! Are you satisfied?"

"No. You didn't tell me until now. So no."

"Courfeyrac- could you...?" Marius gave him a look.

"Oh," he said, getting the hint and stepping back into the apartment. But then he turned back around and looked at Marius very seriously. "Marius, don't forget."

"I know," he said shortly.

"You need to be quick. We haven't much time."

"I will," he said, glaring at his friend, who finally left. Marius turned his attention back to Cosette. "How did you get here?"

"I took a fiacre," she said. "I remembered the fighting on the streets, don't worry. You don't know how difficult it was to find one."

"Where is your father?"

"At home. He does not know I am here," she said, and began to twist her hands, looking very nervous. "I came because I couldn't leave without saying a proper goodbye. But also because I can't just leave. I went inside with my father and was thinking and I know I can't go to England tomorrow."

Cosette looked down at the floor for a moment, her face getting redder and redder by the moment. At last, she raised her head, and looked Marius squarely in the eye.

"Will you please do something for me? My father is strict, but honestly, he is not unreasonable. When he yelled at you tonight, I assure you it's only because he was surprised. You know I've never lied to him before, and he's hurt and shocked. And then the guns... it wasn't you, Marius. I think if we give him some time, and if you come and talk to him, he might listen."

"You want me to come back to your apartment with you and talk to your father?" Marius asked.

Cosette bit her lip, wondering if she was asking too much of him.

"I'll go," he said, knowing that it might be their last chance. Taking her arm, he directed her down the stairs, and out into the deserted street. As soon as they were outside, Marius turned Cosette to face him.

"Cosette, love. Do you trust me?"

Cosette nodded.

"Then you can't ask questions. We'll go to your apartment and talk to your father. But I have something to do first. Will you come with me, without asking any questions?"

Cosette nodded again. Something in Marius' eye made her impulsively pull him towards her. She kissed him hard, on the lips, until Marius at last broke away. They continued down the street a little ways until Cosette spoke again.

"What is wrong with your friend? He seemed...odd, back at the apartment."

"Oh, that's just Courfeyrac. He's actually quite entertaining, usually," Marius said, awkwardly.

"Oh, he's quite...amusing. But something seemed wrong." Cosette said.

"He's just stressed. The fighting," Marius said, not elaborating.

Cosette pressed her advantage. "What does Courfeyrac have to do with the fighting? And why can't I ask questions?"

Marius stopped walking again, and faced her. "Cosette, I'm sorry. I have to do something for my friends, and I can't tell you what is happening. It's not that I don't trust you, but no one can know. If something happens, it's best of you don't know any information. I'll go to your father, but I told you I have to do something first, I promised my friends I would help them with something. Will you just trust me for an hour and not ask any questions?"

Cosette bit her lip. This sounded illegal. "I have one question. Are you hurting anyone?" she said meekly.

"No," he promised. "Not at all. Far from it."

"Fine then. I trust you and you don't need to tell me."

"I hope I'll have a chance to tell you everything someday soon," he promised. "But for now it's best you don't know. I'll assure you again I do trust you."

Cosette just grasped Marius' hand, and went with him. They walked to the Corinthe. Cosette was curious, but it was obvious Marius was following instructions and not really doing anything he was familiar with.

"There's police," Cosette said as they approached their destination. She was wondering if Marius was going to be arrested. She hoped he wouldn't - she had no idea where they were.

Marius cursed. "Merde." Cosette had never heard the expletive before, but she recognized well enough the tone of voice. He pulled her into a side alley.  
>"Look, Cosette, could you distract them for a minute?" Cosette, her eyes wide, shook her head frantically.<p>

"No, please, my love, you can do it. Tell them that you work here and you have to get breakfast started before the workmen come for their morning break. Please. I just need to go in, get something, and I'll be right out again. We'll meet back here. Everything will be alright, I promise."

Something in Marius' desperate eyes made Cosette agree. "Fine," Cosette said, scared, but willing to help. Marius left her then, and she boldly walked toward the entrance to the Corinthe.

"Excuse me, Mademoiselle," a young soldier came up to her. "You can't go in there."

"But I have to work!" she exclaimed, her fear helping her look frantic. Through the corner of her eye she saw Marius slip through the door. "I need to start breakfast! I'm already running late, and Monsieur Leblanc will be so angry if the sausages aren't on the table when the workmen start coming for breakfast..." Cosette was hardly even aware of what she was saying, such was her fear.

"The place is shut down for the day," the officer said. "Don't worry about your job. Didn't you hear about the fighting here yesterday?"

"No. I just got back to Paris last night, I've been visiting my mother in Normandy." Cosette blathered, keeping a careful eye on the door, waiting for Marius to come back out.

"Take my advice, mademoiselle. Go home, and stay there. The damn rebels should keep quiet enough today, but it's not safe for a pretty young lady like yourself to be out and about."

Marius had not come out yet, so Cosette continued.

"Have people died?"

"Mademoiselle, I can't release information. But yes, it's been ghastly."

"Oh," she said, and reached for her handkerchief. "That's just awful. I do hope my fiancee wasn't in the fighting." Cosette began to weep half-fake half-real tears, her anguish helping her to act.

"Mademoiselle," the officer said as she wept. He put a hand on her shoulder, and pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve. "There, now. Don't cry."

Behind the cover of her handkerchief, Cosette looked frantically around for Marius. He still was no where to be seen. She broke into a fresh flood of tears. "Oh, my poor Jean. I wish I knew, oh, Jean..."

"Oh, Mademoiselle. If your young man is dead, there's no reason you won't find another." Through her tears, Cosette looked up at the soldier, who had drawn himself up expectantly. In the background, however, she could see Marius emerge from the cafe, and slip into the back alley.

"Excuse me, Monsieur. I will go to look for him at his apartment. Thank you for your assistance." she said politely. The soldier looked down at her.

"Are you sure you'll be able to get home safely? The streets are not safe! I'd be more than happy to take you home..."

Cosette shook her head, and, smiling innocently, said, "Oh, no, I'll be alright. Thank you for your kind offer, though." She hurried into the back alley.

"That was perfect," Marius said, as she stood next to him. Looking down, Cosette noticed that his hands were shaking, as he grasped a black bag. "I have never broken in anywhere before."

"I have never lied to a soldier before, either," she confessed.

"It's all behind us now," he said, and began to lead her back to his apartment.

Cosette knew she had promised not to ask questions, but the soldier's words of, "It's been ghastly" haunted her. Something must be very wrong with one of Marius' friends for him to be acting so. She was worried.

"You know," she said. "I might be able to help. You don't have to tell me anything. But if there's anything I can do, you can ask me."

"I don't think there is," he said. "I'm not even very involved... just associated," he said, but stopped there, knowing he would start telling her everything soon. Some of it just wasn't things she should hear, but most of the cause of his reservation was that if one of them was arrested, Cosette's lack of knowledge would protect her.

They arrived back at Marius' apartment. He knocked very loudly, which Cosette found odd- didn't he have a key? But then Courfeyrac answered. Marius gave him the bag.

Courfeyrac nodded gratefully. "I knew you would come through."

"Just get me out of this, please," Marius said. "You know I don't want a part of this. Now, I'm going to take Cosette home."

Marius turned and was going to escort Cosette out, but she earnestly grabbed his arm.

"Marius, let's not go yet," she said, her eyes suddenly fearful.

He just looked at her blankly.

"Please, let me stay here with you. My father won't leave without me. We are leaving at ten this morning to go to the coast, and then our boat is leaving tomorrow morning. I'll make us miss it, and then we'll have at least another few days to convince him-"

"Cosette," Marius' heart was hammering. She couldn't stay here! They were standing in the hallway outside his apartment, in a sort of awkward limbo. The only thing separating them from a group of blood-stained rebels, a few cheap grisettes, and a scene of unimaginable horror was a thin wall. He had no intention of letting Cosette get anywhere near that scene. "That's just so childish."

"But it might work," she said, hopeful as always.

"Cosette-"

"You two should come inside. It's dangerous to be out in the hallway like this."

Courfeyrac said. They had not noticed he was still there.

"Courfeyrac," Marius said, giving him a look. He couldn't bring Cosette inside! She'd see everything.

"It's fine," he said. He stepped back, and led them into the apartment. Marius looked around in shock- it was empty. The front room, anyway.

"How...?"

"Erm..Marius. I have something to tell you," Courfeyrac said, looking apprehensive. "Your grandfather is looking for you."

"My grandfather? He came here?" Marius asked, shocked. He was struck with a sudden image of his grandfather, with his ridiculously elaborate clothing and gold-topped cane, striding through the streets of the Latin Quarter, rapping young gamins on the head with his cane to clear the streets to make way for the ever-so eminient bourgeois.

"No, the old bat didn't come here. But he hired a detective to come here," Courfeyrac said.

Marius, who, despite his promise to Enjolras, didn't care much about the plight of Les Amis, thought only fleetingly of how dangerous it would be to have a detective in their hideout. His thoughts immediately jumped to how this would benefit he and Cosette.

"Cosette," Marius turned, smiling. "If he's looking for me, that must be a good thing! Maybe he's come to apologize! Maybe he's rethinking things- we have to go see him. He'll see how perfect you are, and then he'll let us get married. And once we have him on our side, we can have him help us convince your father-"

"Marius," Courfeyrac interrupted. "First of all... you want to get married? What is the matter with you? Don't you enjoy your gloriously irresponsible bachelor state? And secondly, when the detective came up into the apartment looking for you, we had to cover for... well... can I talk to you alone?"

Marius thought, but declined. There wasn't any place to put Cosette, and since they weren't on the streets anymore she wasn't in any danger of being arrested and interrogated.

"No. Say whatever you have to say now."

Courfeyrac said, "No, Marius. Come with me."

He turned to Cosette, flashed her a charming smile, and said, "Now, Mademoiselle, if you would be so kind as to remain in this room. You see, I haven't had a chance to tidy up the rest of the apartment, and I would be so ashamed if someone of your loveliness saw my slovenliness. You understand, I am sure?"

Without waiting for her reply, Courfeyrac pulled Marius into the hallway, where he immediately began explaining what had happened.

"The Inspector came round looking for you, and you weren't here. But we couldn't have him poking around, you see, that would have been a disaster. So I shoved everyone into the bedroom, and did my best to pose as you."

"You didn't!" Marius said, horrified.

"It wasn't easy, acting like a self-righteous prig." Marius would have been offended, if he didn't know Courfeyrac so well. "But I couldn't get him to clear out, no matter how I tried. But Feuilly, bless his dear, intellectual soul, had the most brilliant idea. He got the girls to come out."

"What do you mean?" Marius asked suspiciously. "Do I want to hear this?"

"He got the girls to unbutton the fronts of their dresses, undo their hair, and rub their cheeks so their faces were red. Then Feuilly had Charlotte come out first, and drape herself on me, and give me a great, smothering kiss - I thought the game was up then, no girl of mine would ever be such an inexperienced kisser - and then told me she'd see me tonight, and left. And then Musichetta came out -"

"Stop! Stop! I've heard enough!" Marius put up his hands to stop Courfeyrac's tirade.

"No, Musichetta was even better! She started kissing me, grabbing at my trousers, pulling off my vest, pushing me up against the wall - gosh, that girl is amazing. It's a shame she's already claimed. But while she was doing that, the good Inspector left. He was very disturbed. My only problem was that, as soon as he left, Musichetta stopped immediately. I'd have rather liked her to carry on, actually."

Marius shuddered slightly at the image, before moaning, "Courfeyrac, could you have possibly done anything worse?"

Before Courfeyrac could respond, there was the sound through the door of Cosette piping up, "Please, what is going on? Where's Marius?"

"I'm coming, Cosette." With a glare at Courfeyrac, Marius went back into the apartment, where Cosette was waiting impatiently.

"Please, Marius, what's happening?" With a look at Marius' disgruntled face, she amended her question. "What's wrong?"

Marius attempted to neutralize his face. "Oh, nothing. Our good friend here has just made our battle with my grandfather a little more difficult. Or rather, a lot more difficult."

Courfeyrac protested. "Hey! I thought you always said he was trying to push women on you! Didn't I just improve his vision of you?"

"Courfeyrac, we are not discussing this now!" Marius snapped, with a significant look at Cosette.

Just then, a knock sounded at the door. The three all looked up. They were silent for a long time, as another knock sounded. And another.

"I suppose I'll get it," Marius said, and cautiously approached the door. 


	7. A Visit from the Father

"What do you mean he has two mistresses?" Gillenormand said, completely shocked. "He came to me barely two days ago, all self-righteous, against mistresses and affairs, and now he has two?"

"I only know what I saw," Inspector Noreau said. "He's medium height, with dark hair? Early twenties?"

"Yes," Gillenormand said.

"At 16 rue de la Verrerie. That's him. And there were two women there. They came out of what must have been the bedroom, practically half-nude. The first girl kissed him, and said, "I'll see you tonight," and then left. The second girl was all over him; they were practically...erm...cohabitating by the time I left.'"

"Well," Gillenormand said with a smile. "I'm thrilled. I'm just tickled. The boy is a chop off the old block! I always knew he'd come round!"

Noreau grimaced, not liking the image that appeared in his head when he thought of this old man and two mistresses.

"Here's your money," Gillenormond said, handing him an envelope. "My gratitude, good sir."

16 rue de la Verrerie, Valjean thought.

"That's where she is," he realized suddenly.

It was nine in the morning. He'd gone into Cosette's room an hour ago, wondering why on earth she was not awake when they had to eat and load all their belongings into a carriage and leave by ten. He'd found an empty bed, and no note.

Valjean had no doubt where she was; she was with that boy. Montpercy? Ponnerny? Something like that- that oafish creature. He looked about twelve, and had absolutely no spine. Some idiot who had come and waltzed by, saw a pretty girl, and tried to woo her with stupid words.

He had Cosette now, somewhere. She had no doubt gone off with him, not of her own will, no! But because he'd taken her!

But Valjean knew where she was. That address carved into the wall of the Rue Plumet! Well, if it wasn't his, whose was it? It had to be his! No one else would be in that garden. After rifling through some maps, Valjean was certain he was right. It was a poor street in the Latin Quarter, very close to where they were living. A perfect place for a poor student to be living.

After shrugging into his National Guard's uniform- in case he was stopped on the street- Valjean set out. He would get Cosette back, hopefully in time to catch their carriage. If they didn't catch it, well... they'd reschedule, but no matter what they would be out of France in a matter of time. Boy or no boy, he was Cosette's father, and she would be coming with him.

And she would be happy!

"Who are you?"

"I am the boy's grandfather!" an old man was saying to the porter when Valjean arrived. "I have every right to come up!"

"I need to see a Monsieur..." Valjean was about to begin, but realized he had no firm grasp on the boy's name. "Does a young man live here?"

"Why do you ask?" the porter said. After months of these two young men living here with scarcely any visitors, why was it that suddenly all these people needed to see them?

"He's kidnapped my daughter!" Valjean said viciously. "I highly recommend you let me up."

"Pontmercy?" the old man said, turning in shock to Valjean.

"That's it!" Valjean exclaimed. "You know him?"

"I'm his grandfather!" he said, and started to laugh knowingly. "I don't think he's exactly kidnapped her."

To Valjean's horror, he winked.

"What do you mean to say?" Valjean said, and dared to draw himself up to his full height. The old man did not seem to care, however.

"I know this might be hard to admit but I think she was here of quite her own accord," he said with a chuckle.

"Excuse me?"

"Well, from what I know, all female company of Monsieur Pontmercy's is only too glad to be here. Both of them, from what I've heard!"

"What do you mean both?" Valjean growled menacingly. What had that bastard done to his Cosette? Why had there been two girls there? Oh, his poor, corrupted Cosette! He would love her, nonetheless. She had done no wrong, Valjean was sure.

Gillenormand's reply pulled him from his reverie. "Look, monsieur, I'm not here to meddle in your affairs-"

"Well, if you have the information, if you have information about my daughter- I... I-" Valjean stumbled over the words.

"Would you two like to go up?" the porter said nervously. It sounded like they had business to attend to, and he hardly wanted a fight to break out on his hands.

"Yes," Valjean said curtly.

"Him too?" Gillenormand said, and just earned himself a glare.

The porter let the two men up, and they stood side by side by Marius' door, Valjean seething, Gillenormand triumphant. It was all part of a young man's growing up to anger a father or two- why, he'd angered many in his heyday! He remembered there had been one girl that he had smuggled out of a convent - ah, how pretty she had been? What was her name again? Sophie? Giselle? Her father had been furious with him, especially when the girl, whatever her name was, had become pregnant. What had happened to her? Gillenormand didn't remember.

Valjean knocked, and then knocked again when no one answered. Finally, the door opened, and a thin young man, looking exhausted, tired and stressed, stood in the doorway.

Valjean looked past the one opening the door, and his eyes fell on Cosette, who had a panicked look on her face.

"Darling," he said, and, pushing past the young man and into the room, pulled her into a tight embrace.

"Father!" she said, very surprised to see him. She managed to take in a very old man hugging Marius, too, before she was enveloped in her father's arms, her gaze blocked by his coat.

Gillenormand was embracing Marius, and whispering in his ear, "Oh, my boy, I am proud of you! Two mistresses! Why didn't you tell me, I was getting worried. Pretty, are they? Just couldn't choose the one?" His whisperings got considerably ruder and more profane, and Marius, struggling to escape the situation, started to listen in on Valjean's conversation with Cosette.

"I know you're scared, but everything is alright now," Valjean was saying soothingly. "We'll just go home, and we can still go to England if we move fast- oh, Cosette, everything will be fine. Are you hurt at all?" he said, pulling back. "Did he hurt you?"

"I did not hurt her!" Marius pulled away gratefully from his grandfather's grasp, and now pushed his way into Cosette's embrace with her father.

"You bastard! You swine! I've been meaning to give you this," Valjean cried, and dropped his hands from Cosette's shoulders. Calmly, and powerfully, he clenched his fist, and pointedly punched Marius in the face.

"Well, this looks like fun," Courfeyrac spoke for the first time since the two old men had entered the room. He had a grin on his face as he watched his friend stagger back and the girl scream - at last, Marius was enjoying the full experience of bachelorhood! "I'm terribly sorry, but I have a prior engagement that requires me to leave this scene..."

"Who are you?" both old men demanded.

"I'm..." Courfeyrac thought wildly for an alias; he didn't trust Gillenormand not to mention his name to his police friend. "Jean Prouvaire. Marius' dearest, considerably more charming and better looking friend."

Gillenormand found himself liking the young man's cheek. Courfeyrac turned to the old man, inclined his head, and said, "Oh, Monsieur Gillenormand? I believe your friend Monsieur Noreau came by earlier? Do tell him that the gentleman he observed was myself, not Monsieur Pontmercy." Gillenormand started to speak, but Courfeyrac overrode him. "Much as I'd like to stand around explaining things further...goodbye," he said, smirking. Then, he let himself into the back room.

"Are you alright?" Cosette said, with Marius' face in her hands. She turned to glare at her father.

"I'm fine," Marius said, obviously lying.

"Cosette, let's leave these fools. Come now, let's go home," Valjean said, putting his arm around his daughter's shoulders.

Cosette took a very deep breath. She could not do this, could she?

She looked at Marius, who was looking at her beseechingly.

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and said decisively, "No."

"Cosette?" Valjean said, shocked.

"I said, no," she said again.

The room was utterly silent. Gillenormand, out of the loop, was just looking entertained. Marius, Valjean, and Cosette all looked surprised at her will, which had never really presented itself before. Valjean was about to speak and break the silence when an anguished cry sounded itself from the back room.

They all jumped.

"What is going on here?" Valjean cried, his voice terrible. He looked demandingly at Marius, and then at Cosette. Neither had anything to offer him.

"I'll be right back," Marius said, and dashed into the back room.

* * *

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	8. Sleight of Hand

Enjolras clamped a hand over Combeferre's mouth in panic; but it was too late. An unmistakable scream of horrific pain had escaped from Combeferre's mouth, and it was certain that the inhabitants of the front room had heard it. They all remained in their positions, frozen in terror, as they listened to the reactions in the front room. One of the old men was all for charging in directly - the girl wanted to know if someone was hurt. Then, suddenly, Pontmercy's voice, slightly higher than normal, came forth as he tried to explain it away.

"Oh, that's just my roommate, you mustn't pay him any mind..."

"What is your roommate doing in there? Is he cutting his arm off?" one of the men's voices came.

"No, I'm sure he isn't..."

"Well, why don't you go ahead and look?"

"Erm...look?"

"Well, knock on the door and see what he's doing in there!"

"Should I?"

"Of course you bloody well should, the man may be seriously hurt!"

"Yes, of course." The volume of Pontmercy's voice rose dramatically. "Courfeyrac! I'm coming in!"

Courfeyrac sprung into action and, was, within ten seconds, stripped down to his underwear.

Blanching visibly, Feuilly whispered, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Outside, they could hear Pontmercy saying loudly, "He isn't answering me. I'm going to go in and check to see if he is alright!"

Courfeyrac now pulled Musichetta to her feet, turned her around, and started unlacing her dress down the back, his fingers a flurry of movement.

"This is our only hope, just trust me. Don't worry, Joly and Bousset, it's only for appearances..."

He pulled Musichetta's dress over her head, and she was left standing in her corset and chemise. Enjolras and Feuilly immediately lowered their eyes, as Courfeyrac started to pull Musichetta's corset down drastically, leaving her chest practically bared for all to see.

Enjolras could hear Musichetta ask, "Is this really necessary?"

Courfeyrac had only time to whisper back, "Yes, it is. Now, follow my lead," before a hesitant knock sounded on the bedroom door.

"Ahem...Courfeyrac? What are you doing in there? Who screamed?"

Already red-faced and laughing, Courfeyrac pulled the door open, his long arm wrapped around Musichetta's waist. Enjolras noticed that Courfeyrac was careful to open the door only wide enough so the two figures could fill the doorway completely. He carefully leaned against the doorframe, with Musichetta against him, kicking the door closed halfway, so no one could see inside.

After a general shocked gasp, Enjolras heard Marius ask, voice shaking, "What happened in there? Who screamed?"

Courfeyrac, laughing and sounding lazily befuddled with pleasure, said, "I think you'll find it's my skills as a lover that caused that. Isn't that right, mon cherie?" He bent his head to kiss Musichetta's neck, while his hands caressed her body.

Enjolras felt himself go red as Musichetta emitted a low, throaty moan. Though he was slightly uncomfortable with the actions going on in front of him, he had to admire how convincing the two were. Musichetta especially- he did not have an idea if that's what women actually did when... well... but on Musichetta, the reactions only seemed natural; larger than life and sensual, like her. She shifted slightly to allow Courfeyrac to grip her waist, bending her head to the side as she allowed him to kiss her neck.

The shift in Musichetta's position allowed him to see slightly into the front room - one of the old men, a very large man who looked like a Quaker, and Marius both had their eyes downcast modestly - Marius even had his hands over his eyes. The girl, and the other old man, were watching the scene with unabashed interest, although the girl was blushing furiously. She looked quietly curious, while the extravagantly dressed old man looked sickly pleased. Quickly, he stepped away, lest the inhabitants of the front room catch his eye.

Courfeyrac extricated himself from Musichetta's grasp, and turned again to face his audience. "Now, if you'll excuse myself and my lady, I believe she needs tending to rather badly." Still laughing, Courfeyrac carefully shut the door, again ensuring that the inside of the room was not visible. As soon as the door was shut, he and Musichetta sprang apart, and both began putting their clothing on again. Enjolras kept his eyes downcast for the duration of the process, focusing on Combeferre. The injured man seemed totally unaware of the scene going on only a few feet away - his eyes were shadowed with agony, his mouth clamped firmly shut as if to keep himself from screaming a second time. Dimly, as if in the back of his head, he could hear the others talking quietly - Bousset clapping Courfeyrac on the shoulder, saying "I can't believe the same trick worked twice!" Courfeyrac complimenting Musichetta on her improvisational skills, and Joly making some sulky comment. At last, the pain on Combeferre's face was too much for Enjolras to bear alone, and he called quietly for the others to return to their positions. As they did so, Enjolras looked down at Combeferre again.

"Are you sure that you want to go through with this?" He asked quietly, squeezing Combeferre's hand as he did so.

Combeferre nodded dumbly and, in a level voice, said, "Now, Feuilly, if you would pass me my tweezers..." Feuilly rummaged about in the bag for a moment, before producing the instrument, and handing it to Combeferre. The surgery recommenced.

Meanwhile, a scandalized silence fell over the front room. After a few minutes, the quiet was broken by Valjean, who reached for Cosette's arm and said, "Now, Cosette, it is time to go. This is not a proper environment for anyone, frankly."

Cosette pulled her arm from her father's grasp and, taking a deep breath, said, "No."

Valjean stared at her in surprise - except for the incident a few moment ago, Cosette had never pitted her will against his.

"I said, 'no.' My place is with Marius. Isn't it, Marius?" Cosette deliberately turned away from her father, and went over to join Marius.

Marius looked down at Cosette, his heart painfully torn. He wanted Cosette with him- sending her away seemed would always seem wrong to him, unnatural. But her father was right. This was not an appropriate environment for anyone, let alone someone like Cosette.

Taking her gently by the shoulders, he pointed her back to Valjean, saying, "I'm sorry, love, but your father is right. You need to go home, this isn't a suitable place for you."

Cosette turned around to face him, betrayal writ large upon her face. She looked at Marius for a moment with wide, pleading eyes. When Marius didn't change his stance, Cosette gave a hurt sigh, and went over to her father. Without another word, Valjean took Cosette's arm, and lead her out of the room, pausing only to give Marius a stern glare.

Marius did not want to think about what he had just done. An hour ago, he had promised Cosette he would try to convince her father to let them marry. But just now he had dismissed her, ruining any chance he had to be with her.

As soon as they were fairly out of the room, Gillenormand immediately turned to Marius.

"I didn't realize you and your roommate were sharing a mistress. So you have your own- but that girl's father seemed rather strict, tough to get around, even by my standards- and then you share the other? She was lovely. I never would have done that in my day, but I suppose times have changed. Tell me, do you ever argue over who gets her when?"

Marius leaned his head against the wall, feeling suddenly very tired. Lifting his head slightly, he said, "I'm sorry, Grandfather, but I need to be alone. Will you please leave? Immediately? I need to think."

Gillenormand, muttering under his breath about ingrates and blood-drinkers, stalked from the room. His loud footsteps as he descended down the stairs echoed throughout the building.

Marius, feeling exhausted and emotionally drained, stood rooted to the spot for quite some time. His thoughts flitted between horror over the scene with Courfeyrac, pain over Cosette's rejected expression, and an utter assurance that he did not want to deal with the current situation any longer. Nonetheless, after a few minutes, he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and went into the bedroom to help with the surgery. It was the only thing left for him. He might as well join les Amis; he had no future with Cosette any more, and no street fight to throw himself into. He had even promised Cosette he would not commit suicide. He saw no welcome future.

He was too late to help; the surgery was already complete. Enjolras was carefully dabbing at Combeferre's stomach with a clean cloth soaked in brandy; the smell permeated throughout the small room. Feuilly had another bottle of brandy next to him; while he was cleaned the surgical equipment, Courfeyrac was surreptitiously taking swigs from the bottle whenever Enjolras' back was turned.

Marius collapsed on the other bed, where Joly and Musichetta were already sitting. He fastidiously avoided eye-contact with Musichetta; after the scene with Courfeyrac, he wasn't sure he could look at her in quite the same way ever again.

Marius shut his eyes and dozed off for a few minutes; by the time he fully returned to wakefulness, Enjolras was tying off a new bandage around Combeferre's torso, and covering him with a blanket. Combeferre seemed to have drifted off to sleep, and Enjolras motioned for everyone to leave the room. Marius grumbled something about intruders in his apartment bossing him about, but complied.

Enjolras lingered after everyone else had left, preparing new bandages, re-capping bottles, and sorting Combeferre's medical bag. At last, Enjolras could delay his departure no longer, and, on an impulse, leaned over and, with drawn lips, softly kissed Combeferre's pallid and clammy forehead.

At the nearly imperceptible touch, Combeferre's eyes opened slightly, and a quiet, weak whisper of, "Thank you," was heard to escape his mouth. Enjolras silently got up, and, with a final look back at Combeferre's still figure, he left the room.

In the front room, a new crisis soon presented itself: hunger. None of the group had eaten for nearly two days, and, as Courfeyrac was quick to mention, they couldn't last much longer without sustenance. The crisis had diverted them from their hunger and claimed their attention, but they were no longer panicked or nauseas and needed something to eat.

Enjolras himself was not hungry - his student life had been dominated by frequent, long-term fasts as he preferred to spend his allowance on weapons for the Republic - but he could not allow his companions to starve. Enjolras remembered that he had a 20-franc coin hidden in the seam of his coat - an emergency measure should he ever be arrested. He now ripped the seam open with savage strength, extracted the coin, and wordlessly handed it over to Marius.

"Go - you're the only one who can go out on the streets. Buy a few loaves of bread, and a big round of cheese, and bring it right back here. Don't talk to anyone, don't make any detours. Keep a low profile."

Feeling slightly patronized, Marius shrugged into his coat and left. He was already rethinking his decision to join les amis.

Meanwhile, several streets away, in the upstairs of the Corinthe wineshop, Grantaire awoke, surrounded by a group of soldiers all pointing their bayonets at his throat.


	9. A New Challenge

Grantaire lay immobile, as one of the soldiers hollered out, "We've got a live one, sarge!"

"Excuse me, my dear man, but would you mind speaking a little quieter? Some of us are trying to sleep."

"You'll have an eternity to sleep, you damn rebel." The soldier pointed his bayonet a little closer to Grantaire's neck.

"You think I am a rebel? No, no, I would never presume to be anything so foolhardy."

The soldier evidently didn't believe him, and pressed his bayonet even closer, until the point was directly touching Grantaire's jugular. A booming voice coming from behind suddenly made the soldier jump, and the bayonet tip grazed Grantaire's skin lightly.

"What do you exactly think you are doing, Leclaire?" A paunchy older man, a sergeant according to the stripes on his shoulder, came into Grantaire's field of view.

"Just detaining a rebel, sir!"

"Rebel? Don't you know that this is Jacques Grantaire, the man in Paris least likely to have political leanings? Too drunk to do anything, most of the time."

"But he's in the wineshop!"

"Don't be a damned idiot, Leclaire. I know Grantaire well - he's my cousin. I'll stand surety for him." Grantaire was sure he had never seen the man in his life.

"But - but what do I do with him then, sarge?"

"Now, at last, a word of sense from you, Leclaire."

The sergeant squatted down beside Grantaire.

"Now, my friend, what were you doing here?"

"I was drinking here before the funeral yesterday - one of the rebels came in through here, and knocked into me with the butt of his rifle. I went down like a sack of bricks, and here I am now." The lie came naturally to Grantaire - and, after all, it was only stretching the truth a little. Courfeyrac had accidentally knocked into him once with the butt of his rifle.

The sergeant straightened up, and knocked the other soldier about the head.

"There you see, Leclaire. The man's as much a victim of the riots as anyone is."

The other soldier kept protesting - despite the circumstances, Grantaire had to admire the man's pluck. "But - sir - we have to arrest him. He was found on the scene, he may have information for us!"

"Look, Leclaire, this is not your concern. As your commanding officer, I'm telling you to go downstairs and keep watch in the street. Leave this in my hands."

With ill grace, Leclaire stomped off down the stairs, leaving Grantaire alone with the officer. Before Grantaire could say anything, the officer leaned down to whisper to him.

"Now, look. I know we're not cousins, and I know we've never met before. But your father once got me out of a tight spot, and I don't forget a good turn. I recognized you at once, I met you when you were a little boy, and you look a good deal like your father, underneath the beard and the bloodshot eyes. So I'm going to help you out of this. You have to trust me."

Grantaire didn't really trust the man, but he was curious to see how far the man's perception of honour would take him. It never ceased to amaze and amuse him - and so, he nodded dumbly.

"Right." The sergeant got to his feet. "Delpech!"

A dark, moody-looking young man came over - judging by his colouring, Grantaire pegged him as being fresh up from the Midi.

"Yes, Sergeant?" Definitely from the Midi, Grantaire thought. The accent was too strong to be anything else.

"Take this one in. He's not a rebel - he's under arrest for charges of public indecency and disrupting the peace, alright?" The Midi-soldier looked over at Grantaire, as if picturing him being publicly indecent, and struggled to contain his laughter.

The sergeant sighed. "Look, boy, control yourself."

Attempting to keep a straight face, Delpech straightened up, saluted the sergeant, and said, "But I didn't join the army to be a police officer, sir."

Grantaire watched in amusement as the sergeant whacked the soldier on the head. "No, boy, you joined His Majesty's Army to follow your commanding officer's orders. Now, please - take the prisoner away. Treat him well, he's a little bit soft upstairs. Do I make myself clear?"

Delpech, still grinning with surpressed laughter, took Grantaire's upper arm, pointed the bayonet behind his back, and started marching him down the stairs. They got out into the street, and Delpech started laughing in earnest.

"Forgive me, monsieur, I mean no disrespect. But it's just..." He started laughing again.

Grantaire, feeling very much as if he could do with a shot of absinthe, heaved a sigh.

"So, monsieur - how were you publicly indecent? Expose yourself to a couple of young ladies in the Luxembourg?" Delpech apparently found that idea even more hilarious, and started guffawing loudly again.

Grantaire paid him no mind, instead re-living the moments preceding his unconsciousness. Where had the others gone? He hadn't seen any of their bodies in the wine-shop - that meant they may well be still alive. Grantaire was perfectly aware of what he meant when he thought "they" - he liked the others, but they were not irreplaceable. The only one he'd really care about whether he lived or died was...him. Enjolras.

Delpech evidently took Grantaire's lack of response as sign of offense taken, and made an effort to curb his laughter. They walked on in silence for a few more minutes, before Grantaire's curiosity got the better of him.

"What happened back there? To the men who were fighting, I mean."

"Oh, the rebels? We got most of them. But there's a group of them - the main leaders, we think - who escaped. We wounded two of the group in the escape, mind, so they can't have gotten far. We expect to recapture them any minute now."

Grantaire's spirits rose dramatically - if there were a group to escape, he was sure Enjolras would be among them. He started to smile and, feeling as if he were at peace with the whole world, began to mock Delpech heartlessly.

This continued the remaining way to the jail; by the time they reached the building, Delpech seemed rather anxious to offload his troublesome prisoner to the police. Grantaire found himself treated well enough - he was placed in a cell, with a few other young men, all asleep by the time he arrived. Grantaire scoffed slightly at their peaceful slumber, as Delpech arrived outside his cell door.

"Now, monsieur - do you have any friends who might be willing to come and pay your bail? Or at least for your food. The wardens tell me they don't have much cell space, and they're rather eager to free up the cells for the rebels. So, if there is anyone who you could call on...a lady friend, perhaps?" Delpech started snickering again.

Grantaire found the young man deeply irritating. "Actually, as a matter of fact, I do have a lady friend. Her name is Widow Antoinette Capet, and she can be found at the Conciergerie Prison. I'm sure she could be prevailed upon to pay my bail, perhaps by selling her lovely diamond necklace." Grantaire started to guffaw loudly, in his best imitation of Delpech.

Delpech did clearly not appreciate either Grantaire's attempt at humour or his imitation, and scowled.

"Now, look. This is serious. Just because you have the sergeant's support doesn't mean you get special treatment. Now, the name of anyone who might be able to bail you out of this mess?"

With only a moment's hesitation, Grantaire replied, "Monsieur Alexandre Courfeyrac, at 16 Rue de la Verrerie." It was only natural - Courfeyrac had often come to bail Grantaire out of jail, and vice versa. After Delpech had left, presumably to relegate the task of fetching Courfeyrac to some minion, Grantaire only then began questioning what he had done.

If Courfeyrac had made an escape from the barricade, he certainly wouldn't appreciate having a police officer show up at his front door. But on the other hand, if Courfeyrac had made the escape, the odds of him hiding in his own apartment were limited at best. Ah, well - let the chips fall where they may, Grantaire thought, as he leaned his head against the wall of his cell, and dozed off.

Meanwhile, at 16 Rue de la Verrerie, Courfeyrac was pacing about the apartment in a state of great consternation. Enjolras sat on the window seat, attempting to distract himself by reading one of Courfeyrac's law textbooks - truthfully, it was very dry reading, and Enjolras frequently found his mind wandering. Musichetta and Bousset were absorbed in re-wrapping Joly's hand, and cooing sympathetically as Joly winced. At last, Courfeyrac flung himself heavily onto the sofa, and, gripping his stomach, cried out, "I can't take it anymore!"

Enjolras looked up from his book. "What?"

"I'm hungry! Pontmercy's been gone for nearly 2 hours, what's taking the damned man so long? I swear, he spends half his time in a daydream..." Courfeyrac continued ranting for some time, until a sharp knock on the front door cut him off.

"At last!" Courfeyrac dived for the door and, with little caution, opened it up wide.

Enjolras sat frozen in horror as, instead of Pontmercy's voice, an entirely unfamiliar one echoed forth.

"Bonjour, monsieur. I am Constable Cadieux, of the Paris Metropolitan Police. Are you Monsieur Alexandre Courfeyrac?"

Before Enjolras had time to even hope that Courfeyrac would attempt to use an alias, Courfeyrac had already responded with a confident, "Who else do you think I am, the Queen of Sheba? Of course I'm Alexandre Courfeyrac. Just Courfeyrac, actually."

"Ah, very good. I'm coming about your friend -" there was a brief pause as the constable perused his notes. "a Monsieur Grantaire. He refused to give any other name - but anyways. He was arrested this morning on charges of public indecency. His bail has been set at 200 francs, and he's asked for you to pay the bail."

A terror struck Courfeyrac unlike any he had ever known before, but his voice only slightly betrayed this. "Grantaire? Arrested?"

The constable rolled his eyes. "Of course. That's what I just said."

"On charges of...public indecency?"

"That's what our records say. Now, look, if you could come with me directly, monsieur, we're rather eager to get him off our hands. We need the cell space for these damn rebels."

Courfeyrac nodded knowingly, as if he heartily agreed.

"If you would just give me a few minutes, constable - I need to check my available funds."

The constable nodded politely, then stepped forward, as if expecting to enter the apartment. Courfeyrac slammed the door shut, and whirled around to face Enjolras, whose face was a curious blend of horror and amusement.

"Now, look, Enjolras, I know what you're going to say. We shouldn't waste our time or money or put our lives at risk by getting Grantaire out. I say we should. Please, Lucien, he's an Amis, isn't he? He's one of our own -" He whispered frantically.

To Courfeyrac's surprise, Enjolras cut him off in similarly hushed tones. "I know, I know. We don't exactly have a choice, do we? Ah, merde, how are we going to be able to do this? We don't have any money on us..."

Courfeyrac flashed Enjolras a wide grin. "What?" Enjolras asked, feeling somewhat self-conscious.

"You swore. I've never heard you do that before. Well done, old boy!" Before Enjolras could offer a retort, Courfeyrac went on. "Look, if we're both agreed on this, then we'll worry about the money later."

Courfeyrac returned to the door, and offered Constable Cadieux a roguish smile.

"Ah, my dear fellow - alas, it would appear I don't have quite the necessary funds to bail my dear friend out presently. But if you could give me until the end of the day - I'm expecting a nice lump sum I inherited from my great-uncle, and the bank told me it would be available later today. I'll be round to pay the bail later today. Tell Grantaire that, and that we're all thinking of him."

Cadieux looked slightly disbelieving, but nodded, and bowed slightly, before making his way down the stairs. Courfeyrac waited until he heard the front door slam shut before he whirled around.

"Merde, merde, merde, merde!" Courfeyrac shouted, feeling as if he would very much like to destroy something.

Enjolras cocked an eyebrow. "I thought you wanted to get him out."

"I did - no, I do! But we don't have a damned franc to our names, Pontmercy will be ages getting back with the food, and we don't have any way of getting that much money. 200 francs, who do the police think they are?"

It was with a sad smile that Enjolras replied, "The police. The tools of a tyrannical regime. The -"

Courfeyrac held up a hand. "I'm sorry, Lucien, but now is really not the time for speech-ifying. Let's be practical." Courfeyrac paced up and down the length of the room for a moment, before holding up his finger in a "eureka!" moment.

"Remember, back when we were starting Les Amis, you had us all chip in for an emergency fund?"

Enjolras was slow in lifting his head - but when he eventually did, Courfeyrac saw an inexplicable light of hope shining in his eyes.

"Of course."

"You still have that, right? We have to have enough money there to spring Grantaire from prison..."

"We have it, yes. Combeferre and I have both still been contributing whatever's left over from our allowances each month, we have quite a lot by now."

Courfeyrac looked shocked. "Why didn't you ever tell me, I would have gone on contributing, I would have -"

Enjolras interrupted him. "Please, Alexandre. That hardly matters right now. It was a sacrifice that Justinien and I were pleased and proud to make. But it doesn't matter, because we can't get it. It's currently hidden underneath a floorboard, in our flat."

Confused, Courfeyrac replied, "And that is a problem how...?"

Enjolras heaved a frustrated sigh. "Justinien and I live on the other end of the quartier, close to the medical school. It's a long ways away, and I don't think it would be safe for any of us to go retrieve it."

Courfeyrac looked thoughtful. "And how else, my dear friend, do you propose to get the money? Isn't rescuing one of the abaisse worth more than risking your own neck to do so?"

"It's more complicated than that, Alexandre..."

"I fail to see how it is. Grantaire is in danger and needs our help - we purport to be the friends of those in need - how could our duty be any clearer laid out?" Courfeyrac, knowing that he had Enjolras cornered, smiled smugly, looking very much like a slick cat in the process.

Enjolras' following intake of breath was sharp, and Courfeyrac braced himself for a scolding for his blatant manipulation.

He was relieved when Enjolras, getting to his feet and shoving his hands in his trouser pockets, replied resignedly, "What's the best way to get the money, then?"

"Well, you see, my friend, God gave man legs for a reason, so that he could propel himself to whatever destination he needed to go."

The flippant remark slipped from Courfeyrac's lips before he could stop himself - but, to his surprise, Enjolras started to laugh. It was a low, quiet, melodical laugh that continued for some time, occasionally verging on hysteria, Courfeyrac thought.

At last, Enjolras came back to his senses.

"I had better be the one to go, I think - my landlady is used to me disappearing for a few days, and then returning unexpectedly for a brief time. It'll be least suspicious. I can go, get the money, and come back here immediately to be with Combeferre, while you run the money over to the police station and get Grantaire out."

Courfeyrac, relieved to see Enjolras sober again, nodded - but then, to his surprise, Enjolras offered a protest against his own plan.

"No, we can't do that, I can't leave Justinien, he's just had surgery, he's not recovering well, I don't want him to wake up and I'm not here..."

Courfeyrac went over and put a comforting hand on Enjolras' thin shoulder.

"You won't be gone for more than an hour, maximum. What could happen in an hour, really? You know he'll just be sleeping. You'll be back before he even knows you're gone."

Enjolras was quiet for a minute, before nodding. "You're right, Alexandre. I'll leave immediately to get the money, and be back quickly. You keep a close eye on the door and hallway, and make sure no-one other than Pontmercy comes in here. Tell Feuilly to watch Justinien."

Without further hesitation, he made for the door. Before Enjolras had a chance to get out into the hallway, Courfeyrac lunged for him, and dragged his friend back into the room.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked, gesturing violently towards Enjolras' bloodstained shirt and trousers. "Anyone who sees you will know within 2 seconds what you've been up to. Before you go anywhere, you have to get your face and hands washed off, and you need to get changed into some of my clothes."

Under Courfeyrac's careful gaze, Enjolras scrubbed Justinien's blood from his hands and lower arms - something that he hadn't even really noticed - and changed into clean shirt and trousers. The clothing was made for Courfeyrac, who was shorter and more bulky than he, and the outfit did not fit particularly well, leaving two inches of forearm and an inch of leg bared. But Enjolras couldn't care less, and ignored Courfeyrac's pained looks.

With a final, anguished look down at the fitfully sleeping Combeferre, Enjolras left the apartment and descended down the stairs. He waited in the hallway for a few moments, waiting for the porter to leave his post. Luckily, the man did so quickly, providing Enjolras with an opportunity to slip out the front door and into the street.

After so long in the airless, cramped flat, Enjolras enjoyed the feeling of the cool breeze and the harsh sounds of the streets - policemen chivvying gamins off of doorsteps, students walking in tight groups, speaking quietly and looking suspiciously at everyone, grisettes shrieking with laughter. The sudden blast of normal Parisian life left Enjolras feeling slightly dazed - but, with a last quick look at the apartment building, he stepped into the crowd, and seamlessly blended in.

Once integrated into the crowd, Enjolras felt somewhat more secure, less conspicuous - but, nonetheless, his journey back to his own flat was one filled with constant worry and fear. He was relieved when the familiar apartment building came into sight - shabby, none-too-glamourous on the outside, but full of solid, provincial bourgeois comfort on the inside. Enjolras entered, and carefully shut the door behind him. Wasting no time, he immediately made for the stairs, ignoring the concierge calling something to him.

Enjolras and Combeferre lived at the very top of the building, in an extremely Spartan flat just barely large enough for the two of them. By the time Enjolras reached the top of the flight of stairs, he was slightly out of breath, but didn't stop for a moment. The door to the flat was unlocked - in normal circumstances, this would have been enough for Enjolras to become extremely worried. But, today, he was in such a hurry that he hardly even noticed. Flinging himself into the apartment, he came to a stop before the side of his bed, where, without so much as a cursory look around, he dropped to his knees and stuck his head in the small gap between bed frame and floor.

He rummaged around in the dark abyss for a moment, his fingers searching for the particular floorboard under which the secret papers, funds, and weapons of Les Amis de l'ABC were hidden - yes, there it was! Enjolras pried the floorboard up, ignoring the scratches on his hands, and, after feeling around for a moment, closed his fingers around a small pouch.

Right as he did so, however, Enjolras felt the alarming sensation of large hands seizing him by the ankles, and attempting to pull him out from under the bed. Feeling a rush of adrenaline, Enjolras kicked fiercely, causing the hands to lose their grip, and buying him a few moments of extra time. Enjolras immediately dropped the small pouch and, instead, rummaged around for a revolver. Luckily, he found one relatively quickly, as the hands closed like vices around his ankles again. The revolver wasn't loaded, of course, but hopefully, it would be enough to frighten away whoever this was.

The intruder had Enjolras fully pulled out from under the bed within seconds - Enjolras scrambled to his feet, hitting his head on the bed frame in the process, and whirled around to face his attacker, fearlessly pointing the revolver directly in their face.

He nearly dropped the weapon in surprise when he saw who it was - and the revolver fell to the ground altogether, as the stranger pulled Enjolras into a tight bear-hug, and cried, in a booming voice,

"This is no way to greet your father now, is it?"


	10. Help from Above

After a few moments, Enjolras at last managed to extricate himself from his father's grasp.

"F-father?" Enjolras asked in a tone of bewilderment - he could still hardly believe that the man was really there. In Paris. In his apartment. "What are you doing here?"

Monsieur Enjolras looked surprised.

"I'd have thought it obvious. Honestly, boy, your mother and I put all this time and money into your education, and you can't even deduce simple facts. We heard of the riots - your mother demanded that I come to Paris to make sure that you weren't foolish enough to be involved."

Enjolras entirely ignored the first part of his father's response - the comment was nothing out of the ordinary in the Enjolras father-son relationship. But, all the same, he was suddenly struck by irrational panic - what if his father found out? Leon Enjolras wasn't a tolerant man, nor one given to indulgent affection towards his only son. Enjolras was honestly not sure if his father would turn him and his friends in.

He suddenly caught sight of his father's face, and realized that the man was waiting for a response. Enjolras could think of only one way to avoid further questioning.

"Look, father - it is lovely to see you, but this is really not a good time." Enjolras watched impassively, as his father's face rapidly clouded over with thinly veiled anger.

"It's never a good time with you, Lucien. Never a good time for you to come home. Never a good time for us to come see you. I swear, if you cared half as much about your mother and I as you did for that low-class Combeferre boy...you're gallivanting off to meet him now, aren't you?"

Enjolras took a deep, sharp breath to calm himself. His father was an overstuffed, intolerant pig - he knew that. He'd known that since he was thirteen. It was worthless to try and argue with him, and getting angry would only aggravate the situation.

"Justinien has been a good friend to me - more supportive and loyal than any upper-crust snob you'd rather have me associate with. But, no, I'm not going to go meet him now."

Monsieur Enjolras gave a derisive snort. "Then who, pray tell, are you going to go meet?"

Here, Enjolras hesitated. He could say Courfeyrac - but then, his father would be sure to ask what they were doing. At last, he hesitantly replied, "I'm going to go meet a woman."

Monsieur Enjolras' eyes grew large as saucers in disbelief.

"A woman? What's her name? Where did you meet? What does she look like?"

Mentally cursing, Enjolras started wracking his brains for a suitable response.

"Her name is...Victoire. She's a shop girl at a bookstore near the Ecole Polytechnique. I - I met her there."

Enjolras prayed that his father would believe him, and leave the subject at that. The gleeful smile spreading itself across Monsieur Enjolras' face, though, made his son's heart sink lower.

"Just at Christmas, you told me that you'd never ever have a mistress...oh, how the mighty have fallen!"

Enjolras irritably cut his father off. "Yes, yes, I know. Now would you let me go see...Victoire now? I'm already running late."

Monsieur Enjolras, grinning broadly, nodded. "Far be it from me to keep you from your sport. Go to your labours, my boy, with my blessing."

Enjolras, blushing furiously, replied with a curt "thank you" before turning to depart. He was planning to leave, and then return within a few minutes, once his father was gone, to retrieve the money properly. That plan was effectively ruined by Monsieur Enjolras' next comment.

"I'll be waiting here for your return later on this evening, for a full account of how it went." To Enjolras' astonishment, his father proceeded to wink roguishly at him, before adding, "Tomorrow morning is perfectly acceptable as well."

To Enjolras' surprise, he felt his father grip his hands and press a very thick roll of money into it. His felt his heart skip.

"Father-"

"Do something nice for your Victoire. Take her to the opera, go out for dinner, get a nice room at an inn - show her a good time! An Enjolras man never lets a lady down in that regard."

Enjolras opened his mouth to say something, but his father held up a hand. "No, no need to thank me. That's what fathers are for. Just be sure to tell me all about it tomorrow."

Enjolras ordinarily would have thrown the money back in his face, lecturing about how wrong it was that bourgeoisie thought they could toss their money about to pave their way. But, now he merely pocketed the money without a word. Combeferre was lying injured in Courfeyrac's apartment, and one of their own was in jail. He needed this money.

"Thank you," he said, despite his father's instructions. After a rushed, awkward embrace that he felt obligated to supply, Enjolras was out the door.

* * *

><p>Marius took the long way home from the nearest open bakery- it had been a struggle to find one, honestly. Many businesses were closed in light of the fighting.<p>

He gripped his parcels of bread and cheese, but did not go straight home. Instead he took a detour, and found himself standing in front of the Rue de le Homme L'arme.

He hoped to catch a glimpse of Cosette before she left, even if it was the unfortunate sight of her stepping into her fiacre with her suitcases. It would be better than never seeing her again. It was very likely that he would never see her again, though.

When her apartment came into view, however, he checked. He did not see Cosette, but she had not left yet. Her father was seated on the curb outside their apartment, head in his hands.

It was too late for Marius to turn back. Monsieur Fauchelevent would see him in a moment or so, and he did not want to seem cowardly. This man had taken everything from him, every opportunity for future happiness. At least Marius could have a last word with him.

"What are you doing here?" Monsieur Fauchelevent said sharply when he spotted Marius, who glared.

"I do live in this neighborhood, you know," he said, even though they both knew it was hardly the reason for Marius to be in front of Cosette's apartment. "I can walk here as much as anyone. You don't need to accost me."

"Well, move along then," Monsieur Fauchelevent said.

_God forbid Cosette see me and I attempt to kidnap her again_, Marius thought resentfully, but did not interrupt.

"We've missed our carriage, thanks to you. But mark my words, we will be leaving as soon as we can rearrange our travel plans."

_Technically, Cosette made you miss your carriage_, Marius thought. _But I suppose you'll be ready to blame me for absolutely anything_.

He could not believe that this was the same man Cosette talked endlessly about, the one she loved deeply and deemed infinitely gentle and generous. He seemed sharp and strict and cruel to Marius.

"Well, I would say I'm sorry, but I'm not," Marius said. "I don't know what you think I did, but I did not do it. You should know that your hatred for me is misplaced. Also, in case you haven't noticed, your daughter is completely miserable, and that is not my fault."

Marius finished this by glaring at Monsieur Fauchelevent, as if to make it very clear whose fault it was. With that, he stalked away and finished the walk to his apartment.

* * *

><p>Half an hour later, Marius sat on the blood-stained couch, his hands covering his ears, and feeling very much as if he'd like to start screaming in absolute frustration, as the others in the flat bickered.<p>

"I just still don't see why that display was necessary!" Joly protested.

"Oh, don't be silly," Musichetta said. "Of course it was necessary."

"Well why couldn't one of us have done it?" Bousset pouted.

Courfeyrac barked a laugh. "First of all, I am Marius' roommate, so at least we kept that element of truth. But the more important reason is that no one would believe that either of you could make a woman like Musichetta react that way- it was clear I had to be the one-"

"You're not even with her-" Joly argued.

"Yes, but that's just as much a surprise as the rest, isn't it?" Courfeyrac continued.

Marius said glaring at the four of them, wishing they would all just shut their mouths. The door to the apartment opened, and Marius groaned again. This was half his apartment, didn't anyone appreciate that? It was not a cafe that was open all hours. What he wanted most at that time was to sleep.

Enjolras entered with a scruffy, unshaven man that Marius recognized as Grantaire, and Feuilly, who had accompanied him to pay bail. The leader took in the scene before him with a slightly annoyed look.

"If you want to argue, you can leave," he said to them all.

Marius was instantly peeved, on Courfeyrac's account. As annoyed as he was with his friend, this was _his_ apartment after all. Enjolras hardly had the authority to kick Courfeyrac out- he was lucky Marius was Courfeyrac were even letting him use it. But he did not speak up, because at least it was quiet now.

After a few minutes, Marius heard Joly and Musichetta and Bousset muttering something about getting out of there- they were going to try to leave and go back to normalcy. To Marius' gratitude, Enjolras said nothing to try to keep them, and they departed. Marius was not at all sad to see them go.

Leaving Grantaire, Feuilly, Courfeyrac and Marius awkwardly looking at each other in the front room, Enjolras let himself into the bedroom, and perched himself on Combeferre's blankets.

"I've brought this," he said, his voice gentle. He produced a bottle of laudanum from his pocket. "The druggist told me it should help ease the pain, and put you to rest for a few hours."

"Anything would help," Combeferre said weakly, tired of the burning, searing pain that wouldn't go away, no matter how he tried to concentrate on anything else.

Enjolras administered a small dose, and waited as Combeferre fell asleep. He watched as the other man's sweaty brow turned slack and peaceful, and his breathing became deep and regular. Maybe, somewhere, he was not in pain.

Back in the front room, another knock sounded at the door.

Marius groaned very loudly, and stormed up as everyone scrambled into the back room like cockroaches in the light. "Enough damned visitors!" he burst. "Enough!"

Indignantly, he whipped open the door, fully intending to give a very good talking-to to whoever had come to knock. Instead he stood, shocked.

It was Monsieur Fauchelevent.

"Might I come in?" the white-haired man asked, ignoring Marius' shocked face. Without waiting to be invited, he walked in and took a seat at Marius' table.

Marius joined him and waited for the reason for the man's visit.

"Please," Monsieur Fauchelevent said, but with a tone that suggested he was not using the word as a nicety. "Tell me everything. Every last thing- no secrecy. What the hell has been going on in this apartment? How do you know my daughter? Why in God's name did you have guns?"

Marius sighed, and his exhaustion took over. He was tired of lying. He was a man of his word, and was tired of abusing it for the past twelve hours. Resigning, he started to speak.

He told him everything- the Luxembourg, the Rue Plumet, how Cosette had told him they were going to England, how his friends were fighting at the barricade, and how he was not part of this group. He told him about Combeferre, and about his deluded idea about the guns, and how Cosette had come to the apartment that morning of her own will. He kept nothing from Monsieur Fauchelevent, despite knowing how the men in the back room, who could doubtless hear everything, were about to eat him alive.

When he finished, Marius looked at the table, the wood grains suddenly very entrancing. Monsieur Fauchelevent's eyes were on him, and he felt the weight of his gaze.

Finally, he spoke. "May I see the wounded man?" he asked.

Marius looked up, surprised. This was not what he expected.

"Yes- yes you may. He's right back here."

Marius let him into the back room. Monsieur Fauchelevent looked surprised, but chose not to comment, by the sight of the tiny room stuffed with people. Enjolras, who had been sitting next to Combeferre on the bed, rose to his feet quickly, and fixed Fauchelevent with an intense, almost jealous gaze as the old man looked at Combeferre. At last, Fauchelevent straightened up, and turned to face Enjolras.

"We need to move him," he said. "I'll call for a carriage and we'll get him some place healthier. I will call a doctor and get this man the care he needs before the wound becomes too infected- it doubtlessly is already."

"Anything you can do would be welcome," Enjolras said with the air of a leader. Valjean looked him up and down, as if doubting his authority. His thoughts were writ large upon his face - if this delicate youth was such a good leader, then why was one of his men dying of his wounds in a garret?

Marius started to like Fauchelevent better immediately.

In ten minutes, they were piled into two fiacres- one with Valjean, Enjolras, and Combeferre, and the other with Courfeyrac, Marius, Feuilly and Grantaire. It only took a few minutes before Marius realized, with a nervous, joyous twist of his stomach, that they were headed to Rue Plumet.

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><p><strong>As usual, we would love to hear what you think of this chapter!<strong>


	11. A Change in Situation

We're so sorry for the long gap between updates - school's been getting really heavy for both of us. Still, at long last, enjoy the new chapter.

The next hour passed as if a dream for Enjolras. Vague events were imprinted on his memory- their arrival at a shabby house; Fauchelevent personally carrying Combeferre, with great gentleness, into a sparsely furnished guest bedroom; Fauchelevent's daughter uttering a cry of mingled shock and delight as she saw Marius descend from the cabriolet. Anything more than that proved to be too taxing to Enjolras' memory.

The next thing he remembered with any great clarity was the arrival of Fauchelevent's doctor, an elderly, kindly man, called Roussel, who might have been the former's brother. Dr. Roussel expelled everyone except for Enjolras, from Combeferre's sickbed, in order to conduct an examination. Enjolras himself would have been sent away as well, if it hadn't been for Combeferre's weak cry when he saw Enjolras departing. So he remained in the bedroom, sitting on the bed, gripping Combeferre's hand for moral support as Dr. Roussel, none too gently, started prodding around his stomach. Several times, Justinien cried out, causing Enjolras to clench his lieutenant's hand all the tighter, and mentally apologize, dozens of times, for putting him through this agony.

By the time the hellish encounter was over, Combeferre had retreated into unconsciousness to escape the pain. Enjolras, his hand still firmly in Justinien's grasp, looked up at Dr. Roussel as he washed his hands.

"Doctor...tell me. Is Combeferre going to be alright?"

Roussel didn't answer for a moment, as he methodically wiped his hands on a clean towel. After what seemed like an eternity to Enjolras, he spoke.

"The operation your friend did to remove the bullet was both very brave, and very stupid. The damage he could have done to himself is unthinkable. But, alas. The bullet was properly removed, and he did minimal internal damage. The boy has good hands, for a student.

"All the same, you're lucky that I'm seeing him when I am - there's the beginnings of a nasty infection that, if left untreated, would kill him off. I'll prescribe something for that. I've already given him something for the pain. But, aside from that...I believe he'll be alright, provided he stays in bed, resting, and gets enough food to keep his strength up."

Enjolras could have fainted with relief. Combeferre was going to live - he was going to be alright. For the first time in the last few days, Enjolras felt himself relax slightly.

"Doctor Roussel, I can never thank you enough for what you have done. For me- for all of us- to lose Justinien...it would have been truly unthinkable."

Roussel gave him an appraising look. "If you're really so fond of him, then I'd think twice before leading him off to take part in petty riots in future. You were lucky this time - don't count on it next time."

Before Enjolras had time to even formulate some scrap of response, Roussel gathered up his things, and left. Enjolras stayed there, frozen by Combeferre's bedside, for quite some time- until M. Fauchelevent himself silently eased his way into the room. He was a large, imposing man, but his size was hardly noticeable to Enjolras, cloaked as it was in modesty and reticence. Taking a seat on the opposite side of the bed, M. Fauchelevent fixed Enjolras with a penetrating look.

"Dr Roussel says that your friend will live. No thanks whatsoever to you, but he will live."

Enjolras' eyes hardened. "Monsieur, I appreciate what you have done for us. It was a thoroughly unsolicited act of kindness that could not be expected from most people. But, with all due respect, that does not give you the right to speak so."

Fauchelevent fell silent, his eyes downcast. At last, he spoke again. "Forgive me, Monsieur. I spoke hastily, and without knowing the full situation. But the fact remains - you are, by unanimous agreement according to the gentlemen downstairs, the leader of this group of outlaws. Thus, this man's injuries are held accountable to you, and to you alone."

"Do you not think that I feel acute guilt for Justinien's injuries and suffering? Believe me, I am only too well acquainted with the fact that I am entirely responsible for this. If he had died, it would have been me who had killed him, just as surely as if I had been the one who shot him." Enjolras fell silent, and ducked his head, trying to hide the emotions currently getting the better of him.

At the sight of the young man's obvious distress, M. Fauchelevent's expression softened somewhat. "But he- Combeferre, isn't it?- isn't going to die. And, if Dr. Roussel's excellent doctoring is anything to go by, he will make a full recovery."

Enjolras rose his head, slowly, his eyes prominent with suffering. "Even if he does, all the suffering he endures throughout this entire ordeal is still my fault. He's my dearest friend, and I've done this to him."

"Morally, maybe it is. But you do not seem to me to be the sort of person who bothers with morality in particular. You're more fixated on the practical, on the concrete, aren't you?"

Enjolras nodded slowly.

"Then, in practice, you have no culpability for Combeferre's injuries. Did you force him to be at that barricade? Is he a weak boy, one to easily be dominated and ordered about?"

Enjolras shook his head. "Most definitely not." His voice failed him slightly on the middle word, but he pushed through all the same.

"Then it was his own decision to be at the barricade. He chose to be there, knowing the risks of remaining. You had nothing to do with it. Yes, it's understandable that you still feel guilty about it - but you must simply be happy that he's going to pull through this."

Enjolras remained silent, his eyes fixated on Combeferre's pale, thin face. At last, M. Fauchelevent rose, with a sigh.

Enjolras inclined his head. "Thank you again, Monsieur. I can't ever begin to repay you for this."

"Make no mention of it. It's human decency, nothing more." Before Enjolras could say another word, Fauchelevent was gone, shutting the door carefully behind him.

Before the door had fully shut, the Amis, minus Marius, all filed into the room, and inquired after Combeferre's health.

"How is he, Enjolras? Monsieur Fauchelevent wouldn't tell us anything more than that he's going to live."

"He's...unconscious, as you can see. The examination was very painful for him, I gather. The doctor said that there's the beginnings of an infection, but that it's easily treated. The surgery successfully removed the bullet, without doing any internal damage, as well...apparently, Justinien is extremely lucky to have avoided doing so."

Enjolras relayed the story, his hand firmly grasped in Combeferre's the whole time. His friends reinforced what Monsieur Fauchelevent said earlier: Combeferre's injuries were not Enjolras' fault.

"You know as well as I that nothing could have kept him away," Courfeyrac said truthfully. "Not if we were there. Not if you were there."

Enjolras nodded, his throat constricted. He would love to believe the words, but he was not sure he could just yet.

A knock sounded on the door, and Fauchelevent's daughter entered.

"Messieurs, my father and I would be pleased to have you join us for dinner downstairs. Madame Toussaint is a wonderful cook, and we've set places for all of you. You are greatly welcome; will you join us?" She gestured out the door, her kind eyes warm.

Feuilly gaped at her, reaching of his head as if to remove his hat, before realizing he was not wearing one.

"Er, yes, Mademoiselle. Thank you."

She smiled and glanced at the others. Courfeyrac snickered at Feuilly, before accepting her invitation as well. The Amis made to follow her, but Enjolras cast a glance at Combeferre's sleeping form.

Fauchelevent's daughter caught the glance, and looked at him warmly and with an understanding that made him somewhat uncomfortable.

"I can have Toussaint send a tray up for you, Monsieur Enjolras," she said, "if you'd prefer it that way."

"Why- thank you Mademoiselle," he said. "I'd prefer not to leave Justinien."

"Of course," she said, before looking at the rest of them. "Shall we?"

Feuilly and the rest followed her like ducklings trailing after their mother, and left Enjolras alone with Combeferre's gentle, steady breathing.

Meanwhile, there was a minor tempest brewing downstairs, as Cosette led the young men into the dining room. M. Fauchelevent greeted them politely, and gestured for them to sit down; they complied. After they were all seated, Cosette reappeared from the kitchen, this time accompanied by Madame Toussaint, both women carrying dishes of food, which they placed on the table. It was then, that Grantaire, having been largely silent up until this point, made a disastrous move.

"Ah, thank you, mon cherie - it has been a very long while since I have had a good meal, but I have never had one served by such a delightful and stunningly beautiful young woman."

Cosette, blushing furiously, ducked her head, and made to leave the room from embarrassment. However, Grantaire seemed to have a different idea and, before M. Fauchelevent had time to act, grabbed her around the waist.

"Come now, my pretty girl, no need to be so prudish and virginal. Has no one ever told you how lovely you are before?"

It was difficult to tell who was more furious at this turn of events: Marius, his face brick red with anger, or M. Fauchelevent, his eyes full of cold, dangerous fury. Both immediately rose and came over to Grantaire's chair - while Marius quickly extricated a frightened-looking Cosette from the drunkard's grasp, M. Fauchelevent grabbed Grantaire by the scruff of the neck.

"There is no place in my house for a man who so insults my daughter. Get out, now."

The other Amis, their faces red with indignation and horror at Grantaire's actions, half-expected him to put up a fight. Mercifully, he didn't.

"Very well, Monsieur, I shall. I did not intend to insult the sainted Mademoiselle, merely to compliment her. She, she understands these things; she is a woman, after all. You are the one who took offense."

With a final nod and slightly leering look in Cosette's direction, Grantaire left. As M. Fauchelevent, still shaking with anger, made his way back over to his chair, and Marius guided Cosette into the kitchen to make sure she was alright, the Amis exchanged looks. It was a few minutes of awkward, tense silence, before Courfeyrac spoke.

"Monsieur, you cannot comprehend how inexpressibly sorry we are for that bit of unpleasantness. Grantaire is...well, let's just say, he doesn't speak for us all. We are just as outraged at his actions as you."

M. Fauchelevent looked up, and shook his head.

"No, I do not think it is possible to be so - but thank you for your apology. It is much appreciated."

At just this moment, the kitchen door opened again, and Cosette and Marius came into the room, arm-in-arm. M. Fauchelevent threw glowering looks, as the two of them retook their seats, giving each other affectionate glances from time to time. Madame Toussaint came clucking into the dining room a few minutes later, bearing the last plate of food, and at her urging, the diners started to eat.

Enjolras only picked at the tray that was brought to the room a little while later. The food was excellent, but he was unable to tear himself away from Combeferre long enough to enjoy it, in any way. After about half an hour, the door of the bedroom creaked open again, and the other Amis, minus Marius, filed in, looking content, their conversation cutting off sharply as soon as they entered the room. Enjolras looked up at them, gesturing to Combeferre's still form.

"You don't have to be silent, he can't hear you, anyways."

Feuilly, apparently, didn't need to be told twice, as he turned back to Courfeyrac, looking unusually animated.

"And she's absolutely lovely. A tender goddess of mercy and kindness and sweetness, just..." He trailed off, words apparently failing him. Courfeyrac clapped him on the shoulder, looking vastly amused.

"In love at last, are we, Feuilly? I agree, Mademoiselle Fauchelevent is an uncommonly attractive young lady. But, remember, she's been claimed by our dreamy Pontmercy. So unless if you're willing to work something out like Joly and Bousset, I'd suggest you find yourself a new girl. And preferably one without a dragon of a father, too."

Feuilly blushed. "But she's just so perfect in every way. Have you seen her profile? So delicate, and noble - just begging to be drawn. Her nose is so shapely...I couldn't begin to do it justice."

"What an unusual fellow you are, Feuilly. Any other man would have realized that her nose isn't the only part of her that's shapely."

Enjolras, having endured this conversation in silence, at last spoke. "Courfeyrac, please do not make such comments about the daughter of our host. I most certainly do not appreciate it, and I'm sure that neither Marius, nor her father, would either."

Courfeyrac fell silent, although the topic of Mademoiselle Fauchelevent was evidently very much on his mind; Feuilly, his eyes and cheeks still bright, kneeled next to Combeferre's bedside, and grasped his hand.

Courfeyrac came over to the bedside, and positioned himself alongside the others; by unspoken consent, the three of them stayed like that for several minutes, watching Combeferre's still form anxiously. Their vigilance was at last paid off as, after about half an hour, Combeferre's eyes fluttered open slightly. Immediately, they sprung into action - Courfeyrac, to pour a glass of water, Feuilly, to go and inform Monsieur Fauchelevent, and Enjolras, to smooth back the hair from Combeferre's forehead.

"You're alright, Justinien. Or rather, you're going to be."

Combeferre, his eyes darting around the room confusedly, didn't ask any questions, but instead accepted a sip of water from the cup Enjolras pressed to his lips. When he was finished, he rested his head back on the pillows, and looked up at Enjolras, his eyes slightly more focused than before.

"It doesn't hurt anymore. What happened?"

Enjolras, happy to hear him speaking coherently again, smiled in spite of himself. "The doctor gave you something for the pain...it's working, then."

"Evidently so."

None of them spoke for a few minutes, until a furiously blushing Feuilly slipped back into the room, looking vaguely star struck. He didn't speak for a few seconds, as he retook his position.

"M. Fauchelevent is very pleased...as are Cosette and Marius."

Courfeyrac gave him a sideways glance. "So you've moved on from 'a tender goddess' to the everyday familiarity of first names, I see."

Feuilly blushed even harder, as he muttered, "She asked me to call her that."

Combeferre gave Enjolras a slightly confused look. "What is going on?"

Enjolras laughed slightly. "Believe me, Justinien, you don't want to know."

Courfeyrac interjected. "I beg to differ, Lucien. Have you ever encountered anything that Combeferre didn't want to know?" He threw an arm over a mortified Feuilly's shoulders. "Our darling Feuilly here has just fallen head over heels for Marius' mistress, and it's very adorable and sweet to see. Ah, young love."

Combeferre shook his head slightly. "Lucien's right, I'd rather not have known that."

Downstairs, now that the worst of the trouble was done with, Cosette took a satisfied seat beside Marius, who was staring catatonically at the wall opposite, more tired than he'd ever been in his life.

Cosette became aware that she was being watched, and turned to see her father staring at them both. Smiling at him, she patted the seat on her other side, until her father came and sat beside her.

"I think there's only one thing for it," she declared, and noticed happily when both men looked at her in curiosity. "Father, Marius and I have decided not to live without each other. You've decided to postpone our trip to England. I think that leaves only one thing left."

Marius' eyes widened at her gall, and he watched as her father turned pale. Marius should have been upset that Cosette robbed him of the chance to be honorable and ask her father for her hand, but he was so exhausted that anything making the decision easier just relieved him. Besides, after the past twenty-four hours, it was doubtful Monsieur Fauchelevent would ever think their courtship honorable.

"I've always wanted a winter wedding," Cosette mused. Marius gulped.

"I think..." Monsieur Fauchelevent began, before shaking his head, resigned. "I think I should speak to your grandfather, Monsieur. We have some arrangements to make."

Cosette squealed, while Marius just sat in shock. He was shocked again when Cosette, after pecking her father on the cheek, leaned over and kissed him as well, right in front of her father. Marius turned red as a beet.

"I'm exhausted- it's been quite a day. Goodnight, you two. I love you both!" she said happily, as if it had always been a wish of hers to have the two of them sitting beside each other. It probably had.

As soon as she was out of the room, Monsieur Fauchelevent turned to Marius. It was clear at once that, though they were working together now, feelings of animosity still lingered. Marius nose throbbed from when Cosette's father had punched him.

"Just because I've agreed does not mean I can't revoke my permission," he warned, his voice so threatening that Marius could not breathe. "You slip up once- once!- and Cosette and I are as good as gone. Anything wrong from you, young man, and I can make it so she won't even miss you. Understood?"

"Yes sir," Marius said, terrified.

"Fine then," Monsieur Fauchelevent said, and excused himself.

The chatter of the amis was cut off when M. Fauchelevent came back into the room, and addressed them awkwardly, although not unkindly.

"It's getting late, all of you - you ought to go to sleep soon."

Courfeyrac jumped up. "Ah, yes, Monsieur, it's as we discussed at dinner- Marius and I will go back to our flat for tonight, and return in the morning. If you don't mind, Lucien. You'll still have Feuilly with you tonight, of course."

Enjolras pulled himself from a quiet discussion with Combeferre. "No, no, I don't mind at all. I thank you for your kindness, Monsieur."

Fauchelevent nodded shortly, before withdrawing. Courfeyrac didn't linger much longer in the bedroom, before saying affectionate goodbyes to Enjolras and Feuilly, giving Combeferre's hand a light squeeze, and going downstairs to shepherd Marius away from Rue Plumet.

A few hours later, the house was dark from the outside; an observer from the street would have said that the occupants were entirely asleep. It was on the contrary, however - the residents and guests at 55 Rue Plumet were still buzzing with activity, albeit silent and solitary. Enjolras remained fixed by Combeferre's bedside all that night, speaking gently to the invalid while he was awake, and patiently holding his hand while he slept; Feuilly had gone off to the bedroom allotted ostensibly to he and Enjolras, where he sat at the desk and daydreamed about Mlle. Fauchelevent; Valjean lay awake, unable to sleep for thinking about that blasted Pontmercy boy, and how peculiarly happy and charming Cosette became in his presence; while the girl herself danced around her bedroom in her nightdress, thrilled to the very core by the events of the past day.

A few streets over, at 17 Rue de la Verrerie, Marius lay happily dead sleep, while Courfeyrac lit a candle, and proceeded to hunt around through Marius' drawers, searching for any evidence of his love affair - a note, a handkerchief, a lock of hair. At last, even Courfeyrac had to admit defeat - and so, slipped back into his bed and, presently, he slept.

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